


Neighbour From Hell

by thescienceofsherlolly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, BAMF Molly, Bad Flirting, Dream Sex, Drunk Sherlock, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Meetings, Implied Sexual Content, Jealous Sherlock, Jealous molly, Jealousy, One Upsmanship, Oral Sex, Rough Kissing, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, first date (sort of), lots of jealousy, sort of. it's not going to last long so don't get invested
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6958675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescienceofsherlolly/pseuds/thescienceofsherlolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly moves into the flat below a pair of eccentric private eyes. Sherlock Holmes quickly decides her wants her out and will do anything to make it happen...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: this is more like a prologue; I’ve never owned a flat or anything so please forgive the rapidness of this chapter…I just wanted her in there, get the story going. Anyway, hope you like it :)

221 Baker Street, Marylebone. Molly Hooper had never ventured to this part of London before; she peered up from her newspaper at the big black door emblazoned with the numbers. Swallowing, she brushed the hair from her eyes and approached, her eyes drawn to the scrawled notice underneath the doorbell. _Sherlock Holmes and Doctor J.H Watson, private investigators. Interesting cases only, please._ Molly tucked away her newspaper and drew herself up, rapping on the door confidently. Her knocking was answered mere seconds later by an older woman, quite flustered but otherwise smiling politely.

“Sorry, dear, the boys are out but you can go on up,” she stood aside, gesturing the smaller woman into her home. Molly stared in confusion for a brief moment before chuckling and shaking her head.

“Oh, no…I’m, um, I’m interested in your downstairs flat,” the older woman looked stunned and Molly bit her lip, “is it still available?”

The kindly woman’s confusion didn’t show any signs of fading, “you want to live _here_ , dearie?” Before Molly could offer up a reply, the woman resumed her smile and ushered her inside, “oh, of course. I’m sorry…it’s been a long day.”

“No, it’s fine,” Molly smiled, stepping inside the narrow hallway; in front of her, a staircase led to the upstairs flat, the one she supposed was occupied by the ‘boys’.

The older woman was busy flapping about tidying up the mess of post in the doorway, muttering something about not being a housekeeper. She finally stood up and addressed her new guest, “oh, where are my manners? Martha Hudson, I’m the landlady.”

“Molly Hooper.” The two shook hands politely and, as Mrs. Hudson turned to unlock the flat, Molly cleared her throat awkwardly, “um, before we make any decisions, I should tell you I have a cat-”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, dear, I’m used to living with animals,” she waved a dismissive hand, throwing open the curtains by the window and choking on the resulting dust cloud. Light spilled into the spacious sitting room, a sizeable kitchen and dining area on the opposite side. The quite likable Mrs. Hudson was smiling once again, “the bedroom’s just through there as well as the en-suite. You aren’t a smoker, are you?”

“No,” Molly replied distractedly, her gaze absorbing the flat she’d already fallen in love with – it was perfect, within walking distance of her new job, not too far from her friends and family and with a park just down the street, excellent for her morning jogs. She approached the bedroom and peered around, smiling at the once again large room; she turned to the landlady, “it’s perfect, Mrs. Hudson. Um, is there anything you’d like to know about me?”

Mrs. Hudson blinked, her smile slowly growing, “yes. When can you move in?”

* * *

Molly heaved the final box into her new living space and dropped it onto the coffee table with a satisfied groan; she rubbed her lower back and looked around, unable to believe the speed at which she’d moved it. In fact, Mrs. Hudson seemed incredibly eager to have her in as soon as possible; perhaps it had something to do with the boys from upstairs. She poured herself a glass of wine and admired her handiwork; the minimal amount of furniture she’d already owned was in place and, although she still had many boxes to unpack, it was beginning to look like home. Toby, her tabby cat, was curled up fast asleep on Molly’s old armchair. Taking a deep swig, she ripped open the first of many boxes labelled ‘books’; the small brunette almost jumped out of skin when the front door crashed open, raised voices following after.

“I can’t bloody believe you sometimes! You almost bloody _killed_ me!” Molly rolled her eyes, burrowing into the box to retrieve her books.

“Nonsense,” she almost dropped the armful she carried at the sound of the second man’s deep voice, “you were in the way.”

“Well, when you said ‘on three’, that generally means ‘on three’.”

“After three,” the deep voice replied matter-of-factly.

After a moment, the front door reopened and closed just as quickly – Molly quickly approached her window and watched the short, blond man run a hand through his hair before hailing a cab. He kept his back to her but Molly could tell he was rather fit, took care of himself. And he had a temper, if the argument she’d just overheard was anything to go by. The man hopped into a cab and disappeared leaving Molly alone with his flatmate just upstairs. Should she introduce herself? It was late in the evening…and would save an awkward conversation on the doorstep the next morning. Perhaps it was the wine talking but Molly couldn’t think of any reason why she shouldn’t introduce herself then and there. She gulped down the remainder of her drink and dashed from her new flat, bounding excitedly upstairs; the gently sounds of a violin could be heard from the slight gap in the door. Before she could stop herself, Molly gave a tentative knock on the door – the sounds continued and she wondered if she should just leave him to it and risk tomorrow’s uncomfortable encounter. She knocked again more forcefully and the violin silenced, the owner giving an audible sigh as he made his way to the door.

The door was wrenched open and he stood there, a pristine suit covered by a blue silk dressing gown; she looked up, way up – wow, he was tall – until she reached his face. Molly blinked, his attractiveness taking her quite by surprise; chiselled cheekbones, sharp eyes and quite nice lips. Which one is he, she wondered, the brains or the blogger? He observed her through narrowed blue eyes, an eyebrow arched questioningly; Molly suddenly remembered why she’d disturbed him in the first place.

“Sorry, hi, I’m, um…well, I just moved in downstairs,” she turned and gestured stupidly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear; she turned back, smiling widely, “and I thought I should introduce myself,” she extended her hand politely, noticing his gaze drop from her rambling lips, “I’m-”

The stranger took her hand and brought it to his eyes, examining her as if she was something particularly interesting; ahhh, the brains, then. She knew enough about Watson’s blog to know this was indeed Mr. Holmes. His eyes flitted briefly to hers, “a doctor. Delicate yet firm, small in stature but no less strong,” Molly blinked as a cunning smile spread across Mr. Holmes’ face, “not just any doctor. Specialist registrar…pathologist,” Molly was too stunned to offer up any intelligent response so simply nodded, her mouth hanging open slightly. Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow, turning her hand over in his, “any good?”

“I-I think so.” Well, she’d just secured a position at London’s most prestigious Hospital but she didn’t want to brag; this was her first meeting with the man, after all.

Sherlock Holmes studied her for a moment, taking her in and deducing in silence; a moment later, he disappeared back into his flat without a word. Molly frowned, foolishly looking around the landing – just as she considered leaving him to his clearly busy schedule, he returned with what looked like a police case file. He handed it to her casually.

“What do you make of this?”

Molly dropped her eyes to the case file, opening it to a rather gory murder scene. Unfazed, she read and her brow furrowed in concentration; he had given her the chance to impress him and she was sure as hell going to take it.

“Hmm, 26-year-old male, bruising around the throat…fatal gunshot wound to the temple,” she paused, moving her finger over the bruising on the photo, “bruising…defensive wounds, maybe? There was a struggle…but why shoot someone you’ve already strangled?” Molly almost forgot her company as she became absorbed in the story of the unnamed gentleman lying in a pool of his own blood, “it must have taken anger,” she tapped the photo and then her chin, “he was a lawyer and not a very good one. He allowed a criminal to walk free for a sum of money, I’m guessing. It was this murder that allowed you to arrest the criminal for both crimes,” she snapped the file closed and smiled, feeling rather pleased with herself.

Sherlock Holmes, genius pin-up consulting detective, was still watching her, the expression on his face indescribable. Was he impressed? Bored? Maybe he’d lost interest – he didn’t look the type to waste his valuable time. He seemed to come back into focus, shaking his head rapidly before snatching back the file and retreating back into his flat, slamming the door behind him. Molly blinked in confusion, wondering what on Earth had just happened. After a minute or two, she turned back towards the stairs – before she could even begin to descend, the door to flat B opened once more.

“Sorry, what was your name?”

“Molly,” she replied quietly, chewing on her lip – for some reason, this action made him frown.

“Well, Molly, I’m going to need you to move out.”

He gave her a cold smile before shutting the door once more, leaving Molly standing frozen in shock on the staircase.


	2. Leverage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly have a heated argument. John meets and hits it off with his new neighbour.

Sherlock exhaled in deep satisfaction, once again lifting his violin and resting it at his chin; as the instrument droned a pleasant tune, the detective’s thoughts strayed to the conversation he’d just been subjected to. Molly Hooper, his new neighbour…that wouldn’t do. As he’d predicted from the moment he took her hand, she was brilliant, demonstrated by the speed with which she’d figured out his old case. She’d introduced herself, unwittingly offering herself up before him, waiting to be deduced. Single, deceased father, mother lives nearby, non-smoker, cat lover, favours strawberry shampoo and bright coloured floral patterns. Sherlock paused his playing, staring blankly at the window in front of him. She had to go, it wasn’t fair to John to have someone of a higher living both with and below him. The detective shook his head, heaving a sigh as he raised his bow to play a softer melody. He could sugar coat it all he wanted, the great Sherlock Holmes knew, of course, the reason he wanted the woman to go.

Molly Hooper was quite the distraction. True, she was a pathologist, a career path that complemented his nicely. Nevertheless, the thought alone of seeing her every day was enough to make his stomach twist sickeningly. His thoughts were interrupted by something poking his arm repeatedly.

“I’m talking to you!”

Sherlock blinked down in shock at Molly Hooper, wondering how long in fact she’d been standing there. Her composure and demeanour had told him she was a calm individual, rarely riled and generally sweet natured. The flush that spread across her face, crept down her neck and disappeared into her flowery tank top told a different story.

“What?” He snapped, glaring at the confusing woman. Wasn’t she supposed to packing? She drew herself up and clenched her teeth.

“I said, why do you want me gone?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he responded sarcastically, returning his violin to its case, “maybe it’s because you’re too clever for your own good. Or because of your childish dress sense. Or because you chose to move here of all places when there are at least three different available living spaces on this street suited to your financial and social needs. Or perhaps it’s your cat.  Or maybe,” he stepped closer in what was supposed to be an intimidating gesture but Molly stood her ground, glowering at him, her chest rising and falling rapidly. This only annoyed the detective all the more, “it’s because you barge into my home, uninvited, demanding things of me. Quite rude, don’t you think?”

The look on Molly’s face was pure thunder. “Excuse me? The only thing I’ve ‘demanded’ of you, Mr. Holmes, is answers on why you want me out of my home,” he scoffed at this, only to be ignored by the woman growing increasingly more furious in front of him, “and you’re one to talk of being rude! I came to introduce myself and _you_ ,” she pointed at him, relishing in the look of shock reflected back at her, “shove some murder investigation under my face and throw a wobbly when I solve it quicker than you managed.”

After a long moment in which the two exchanged dark stares, Sherlock folded his arms and gave her a cold smile, “what makes you so certain you solved it quicker than I did?”

“Why else would you want me gone?” She mimicked his arm crossing, lifting an eyebrow, “you tell me what’s rude: the person making an effort or the man who never even tried.”

“What do you suggest?”

Molly shrugged, “I don’t know. Asking me to dinner or something…make me feel welcome, you know.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed, uncrossing his arms to stuff into his pockets, “would you like to have dinner since you’re incapable of acquainting yourself with the neighbourhood?”

Molly snorted derisively, “I’d rather go skinny dipping with Donald Trump.”

“It can be arranged. My brother has connections,” he aggressively took up his violin once more and smiled humourlessly, “good night, Miss. And welcome to Baker Street.”

Molly huffed and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door behind her with surprising force; she took care not to give her door the same treatment for Mrs. Hudson’s benefit. Once inside, Molly breathed deeply and ran her hands through her hair, heading for the bottle of wine on the counter – she unscrewed the cap and chugged the contents, not even bothering with a glass. Upstairs, the consulting detective had ceased his playing and was pacing in front of the dark windows. Despite the frustration and anger the tiny woman had brought out of him, Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. Whether she liked it or not, Miss Hooper was going to move out and leave him alone. He’d make sure of it.

Her first night in 221C Baker Street had gone exactly as she’d expected; Molly had only just crawled into bed when there was a knock at her door. Mr. Holmes stood there with a pack of cards, offering to play her in the hopes of kicking her out. After Molly had slammed the door in his face, he’d retreated upstairs, grumbling profanities, and proceeded to fire a gun into the wall for what felt like hours. After securing her surprisingly effective earplugs, Molly settled down into a peaceful sleep - if this was the best Sherlock Holmes could do to get her to leave, Molly felt certain she had nothing to worry about.

* * *

John stretched out in the back of the cab, covering his deep yawn with the back of his hand – he’d had one of the worst nights of his life. After arguing with Sherlock, he’d gone straight to Sarah, his girlfriend of three months, to complain and seek refuge for the night. He awoke in the morning to an empty flat with a note informing him their relationship was over, adding the customary it’s-not-you-it’s-me rubbish. The cab rolled to a halt and called his stop; the former army doctor handed over the money and stumbled out of the car. He stretched once more and approached the door, fiddling in his pocket for his keys. Upon entering his home, he was greeted with the appealing sight of a strange woman in a pair of skin-tight cropped jogging bottoms and plain white tank top bending over, stretching. He cleared his throat and the woman turned, smiling widely at him.

“Hi…”

“Hi,” she stood up straight, offering him her hand, “you must be Dr. Watson. I’m Molly Hooper, I just moved in yesterday-”

“Oh, yes. It’s lovely to meet you, Molly Hooper. I’m John…” he took her hand immediately and returned her smile, keen to make up for his unflattering ogling. She didn’t seem to mind as she giggled, gesturing at the door.

“I’m sorry, I’d love to talk more later. I was just going-”

“Oh, no, I’ll join you,” he said hastily, giving her a quick smile and dashing upstairs before she had the chance to say otherwise.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope as John stumbled his way inside the flat, shrugging off his coat as he raced to the bathroom.

“Ah, John. I’m afraid recent developments have left me unable to-” the bathroom door slammed behind the impatient army doctor leaving the consulting detective staring blankly at the remnants of Hurricane Watson. He frowned, “is something wrong?”

“Nope. Sarah and I broke up. I’m fine.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, “really? Last time you ate your body weight in cream cakes and refused to leave the flat for a month.”

The bathroom door opened and John Watson emerged in an outfit Sherlock suspected hadn’t been used in years; a plain white t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms. He grinned as if pleased with himself.

“This time is different.”

He was gone a second later, bounding downstairs like an excited child; Sherlock shrugged and stood from his stool, strolling over to peer out of the large window. Molly and John were stretching outside, giggling about something stupid no doubt. He was touching her arm and then they were off, jogging at a gentle pace towards the park at the end of the street. As he watched them disappear, two things occurred to the detective: firstly, John had incredibly stupid small hands and he hated them and secondly, Molly’s flat downstairs was empty and utterly defenceless.

* * *

Sherlock eased open the door of Molly’s flat and couldn’t stop the sigh from escaping at the sight that greeted him; the lounge was colourful, warm and bright…much like its occupant, he considered. She’d managed to make the old dusty wallpaper come to life, her personal photos and various portraits hung from all angles. Decorative plants aligned the windowsills, bright purple floral patterned cushions sat at either end of the lime green sofa; he couldn’t help but smile at the odd colour scheme, somehow it seemed to work. Even the wooden floor seemed to shine in the light streaming in through the windows – she must have spent hours on her hands and knees, scrubbing and…scrubbing. He shook his head, remembering his purpose for being there in the first place. Sherlock tiptoed over to the kitchen counter, plucking his new neighbour’s mobile phone from its spot, charging by the kettle. He quickly input his own number and replaced the phone, careful to ensure nothing was amiss; he turned around and came face to face with a displeased tabby cat.

“Shoo!” He whispered, waving his hand at the feline.

The cat hissed and swiped at his hand, catching the skin on the back of his hand before leaping off the table and hiding beneath the nearest chair. Sherlock covered his bloody hand with his other and hurriedly departed the flat, pleased with himself – now he had the upper hand. Molly would definitely not want to live below someone who broke into her home, forced his number on her with the clear intention of inundating her with messages asking her to move out. He’d just finished bandaging his cuts when John and Molly entered the flat, the latter giggling hysterically as the former wheezed uncontrollably.

“I thought you said you were in the army,” Molly said sceptically, retrieving a glass from the cupboard to pour her new friend a much needed glass of water. John took the glass gratefully and drained its contents.

“I was a doctor,” he trudged into the kitchen, rummaging in the fridge, “not much exercise required…” he trailed off and shook his head, muttering under his breath, “eyeballs.”

“Sorry?”

“Eyeballs in the bloody fridge,” John dragged a hand down his face and Molly appeared at his side, looking into the fridge turned autopsy storage unit.

Molly giggled, nudging his arm, “well, where else are you going to keep them?”

“What? No, it’s not me!” John said hastily, closing the fridge and gesturing wildly, “Sherlock nicks them from Dr. Franklin at the morgue. Won’t be doing that for much longer; it was his last day today. We went to his retirement party. Mike said the new pathologist won’t be having any of his nonsense.”

Molly nodded slowly, raising a single eyebrow in intrigue, “yeah…sorry, what Hospital did you say it was?”

“Bart’s. You know it?”

“Oh, yeah…” Molly replied, resigning herself to grinning smugly behind her own glass of water.

Inside the bathroom, Sherlock was annoyed beyond belief – the woman was inhuman. He had actual human body parts stored in a place meant for food and she was _fascinated_ rather than repulsed and his ingenious plan to drive her away was to _text_ her? He was better than that, surely. No, he’d have to up the ante if he truly wanted her gone. Nevertheless, he couldn’t bring himself to delete her number from his own phone.

“So, um I was thinking…” Sherlock’s attention returned to the conversation happening outside the confines of the bathroom, “I’d hate for you to think me rude or discourteous…well, the thing is…would you like to have dinner with me?”

Molly hesitated, unsure how to answer such a kind offer – it wasn’t that she disliked him. In fact, he was quite charming and rather attractive, even if he wasn’t her type. Her type was the wrong type, her type-

The bathroom door flew open and Sherlock strolled out, flexing his painful hand. The other two occupants turned with identical frowns which Sherlock promptly ignored, “ah, John, Sarah called…apparently, you’re forgiven,” his eyes fell on Molly and he smiled, “Molly.”

“Holmes,” she replied just as darkly. John glanced between them, his finger following his eyes.

“You’ve met?” At his friend’s answering nod, eyes still firmly fixed on their guest, John sighed deeply and massaged his forehead, “well, it was nice knowing you.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere, Dr. Watson,” Molly smiled triumphantly, pulling her hair loose from its tie as she walked towards the door. Her eyes swivelled to the fuming detective, “I love it here. I think I’m going to be around for a long time,” she winked and left them to it. John’s grin was borderline pathetic when Molly popped her head back inside to add, “I’d love to have dinner with you, John.”

With that, Molly left her new acquaintances to it, feeling quite pleased with herself at the look on Holmes’ face.

* * *

Sherlock had spent the entirety of the afternoon trying to convince John that Molly Hooper was bad news, definitely not the type of woman he should be involving himself with. Despite the fact they were completely incompatible mating partners, they had absolutely nothing in common. Yes, they were both doctors and had fractured relationships with family members, shared a love of romantic literature and animals. Still, Sherlock knew better than anyone that it wouldn’t work between them; he couldn’t stomach the thought of seeing John holding Molly, having her stay at their flat every night, being forced to listen to them…

He shuddered and pulled up the collars of his coat, descending the stairs down to the morgue; he couldn’t quite understand why John couldn’t stop smiling, shooting him fleeting side glances every now and again. Sherlock shoved open the doors to the morgue and almost stumbled backwards into his friend.

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” Molly smiled insufferably, smoothing down her brand new lab coat, “now, what is it that I can do for you?”


	3. Not A Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John buggers off, leaving Sherlock to stand in for his date with Molly. It goes so well, the detective panics and lashes out.

John couldn’t stop himself from smirking at the sight beside him; Sherlock was perched at his microscope, glaring daggers at Molly Hooper’s back where she stood in front of them, methodically placing her belongings in her new desk. He’d been muttering under his breath ever since they’d arrived, promising to give Mike an earful over his ‘questionable staff choices’. To make matters worse for the poor sod, within five minutes of their arrival, Molly had bluntly explained nothing would leave Bart’s morgue without her knowledge. That, as well as informing them she was nobody’s coffee girl. John took immense delight in the knowledge this greatly pissed off the world’s only consulting detective, despite the fact he was well aware he’d be persuaded to go instead. What did surprise him, though, was Sherlock’s lack of resistance as he simply stomped over to his microscope, whispering harshly when he reached him.

“I want her out!”

“You’ve said. You don’t seem to be doing much about it…” John said, tapping his foot in boredom, glancing to his left. Either Sherlock hadn’t heard him or he was ignoring him in favour of looking over the pathologist now bending down to the bottom drawer. John raised an intrigued eyebrow, “I mean, you could always-“

“Coffee, John? I’d love some.”

The army doctor frowned but didn’t argue, giving Molly a sweet smile on his way out; Sherlock watched the exchange through narrowed eyes, scowling at John as he left. For several moments, the two of them listened as his footsteps grew steadily more distant – Molly, who was casually leaning against his bench, raised an eyebrow expectantly. He swivelled on his stool to face her.

“Alright…what do you want?”

“Simple. I want to sort this out,” when Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, Molly quickly added, “without either of us going anywhere.”

“Fine,” he mumbled grumpily, “what do you suggest?”

“Well,” Molly hesitated, choosing her words carefully, “if you promise to drop all of this flat nonsense…you can have the body parts from the fridge. For your experiments.”

He took a moment to ponder her offer sincerely – oh, she looked utterly smug, a winner’s grin. She knew she had him right where she wanted him. What he wouldn’t give to wipe that look off of her face. True, her solution was fair and benefited the both of them…he just couldn’t bring himself to admit that.

“Absolutely not.”

He expected her to look defeated. Instead, she confidently shrugged, “well, it looks like the work you love so much is going to suffer, then. Because you still don’t seem to understand, I’m not going anywhere.”

When John Watson finally returned with the coffees several minutes later, he found Molly working happily, humming a pleasant tune whilst Sherlock fumed silently behind his microscope. He approached his friend and handed him his coffee.

“Everything alright?”

He was ignored in favour of more glowers and head shakes towards a certain pathologist; the army doctor sighed, sipping his coffee. Sherlock’s insistence on her leaving in spite of her having done nothing wrong and Molly’s stubborn unwillingness to comply with his every demand had the army doctor wondering if the two of them were enjoying themselves far too much. After all, Sherlock still hadn’t made any effort to accelerate her departure.

* * *

Molly Hooper was really testing his patience. She wasn’t even in the building and she was still bothering him, having wormed her way into his mind and burrowed beneath his skin. John was right – he hadn’t even made a decent attempt in getting her to leave. It was impossible to think, he needed to _think_. Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration before clasping his hands. If, and it was a big if, he agreed to her offer…would it make a difference? He’d have the work to occupy his mind but her permanent presence would render him unable to concentrate. Even the morgue wasn’t safe anymore. Perhaps if he got to the bottom of why it was she completely ceased his ability to work, he could solve the problem. Molly Hooper was clever, no doubt about it - he shook his head. A feeble excuse; her intelligence and helpfulness would be useful during his cases. Her hair annoyed him, the way it fell down her back even when she’d swept it up in a ponytail. Was that it?

His thoughts were interrupted by a bustling John Watson, who was busy checking himself over in the mirror, securing a handsome pair of cufflinks to his wrist. He was dressed to impress, wearing his best suit and trademark grin. The detective rolled his eyes. Ah, yes, the git had a date with the very woman he was trying to stop thinking about. In his very home, at his very table or sofa. The idea made him shudder.

“Right,” John grinned, smoothing down his jacket and winking at his flatmate, “see you later. Don’t wait up-“

“Hang on!” Sherlock interrupted, frowning deeply, “where are you going? You invited Molly to dinner…”

“Oh,” John replied with obvious false shock, slapping his forehead comically, “that’s right…you see, I sort of promised Stephanie-“

“No,” Sherlock was shaking his head as realisation struck him, “no, no no no no! I’m not doing it.”

“It’s just one night,” John smirked, pulling on his coat, “you never know, you might end up enjoying yourself.”

The detective grew steadily more irritated at his friend’s ‘flawless plan’, pointing frantically at him, “for God’s sake, it’s not going to work. She doesn’t even like me!”

John chuckled, grabbing his keys from the coffee table, “doesn’t she?” John looked up to find Sherlock staring into space, a puzzled expression on his face. He shrugged, “alright…you keep pestering her to leave but she’s not having any of it. Why not? Why is she staying when it would be so much easier to leave?”

Sherlock remained silent, clasping his hands beneath his chin; the rent was affordable, reasonable distance from work…he couldn’t be the reason she was still sticking around. No, he was a rude, inconsiderate arsehole and Molly knew it very well. He sighed, running his hands through his hair frantically – whatever it was, the woman had corrupted him, poisoned his mind. God, what was wrong with him? Far too soon the front door opened downstairs, signalling Molly’s return from work. He looked around the flat frantically, swearing under his breath. What was he supposed to say? John had abandoned her and left her with him, the arsehole flatmate. Well, it would certainly deter her from pursuing any future liaisons with the army doctor. It didn’t matter anyway; she’d never stay for dinner with him. He repeated this to himself as he hastily scarpered into his bedroom to change into his best purple shirt. He gave himself a once over in the mirror, brushing down his shirt and jacket; it wasn’t until the gentle knocking sounded at the door that Sherlock realised just how nervous he actually was.

* * *

Sherlock had never been so uncomfortable in his entire life and he had a feeling his companion felt the same way. The two of them sat opposite each other, Molly occupying John’s chair whilst Sherlock sat in his own, plucking absently at his violin; he’d retreated there after embarrassing himself at his reaction to her choice of outfit. Molly paired a long sleeved cherry-patterned blouse with a huge red belt wrapped around a black pencil skirt and heels, her hair tied in a loose plait. He’d stared at her silently for a full minute before turning around heading for his chair, gathering up his violin.

Molly twiddled her thumbs, glancing at the clock. Oh, good…ten minutes had passed. She sighed, “um, sorry…is John running late or something?”

“Change of plan, he’s not coming. So sorry,” he spat, tugging one of the strings of his violin harshly. Molly rolled her eyes, moving to stand up from her chair. Sherlock found himself quickly adding, “you can stay, though. If you want.”

She appeared to consider him for a moment. “Yeah, why not? It might be fun.”

She’d noticed before but it was only now that Molly realised how striking the silent, brooding detective actually was. His curls always looked so soft, he must spend hours on it. Immaculately tailored suits that were just a tad too tight, not that she minded, of course. The purple one he wore now was rapidly becoming her favourite. She quickly looked up to find him sitting with his hands clasped, still staring at her with a slight frown. She cleared her throat, wrapping the end of her plait around her finger.

“So, do you like what I’ve with the place?” Her eyes flickered to him just in time to see him blinking rapidly, completely shocked by her admission. She giggled playfully, “what, you thought I wouldn’t notice your number in my phone? And there’s that,” she nodded at his plaster covered hand.

“Did you keep it?” He blurted out, rubbing at his scratch distractedly. Without waiting for an answer, he leaned over his coffee table, plucking his laptop from the side, “sorry. Um, Chinese?”

“Sounds lovely,” Molly replied quickly, relieved she didn’t have to answer his unexpected question.

They spoke only to exchange orders as Sherlock typed away on the laptop, occasionally glancing up to find Molly sipping the alcohol she’d helped herself to. Said beverage was bringing the most delightful flush to her already rosy cheeks – he glanced down to find he’d doubled their order and quickly deleted the extra portions. Sherlock discarded his laptop and ruffled his hair with one hand, at a loss with what to say to the woman he wanted to get as far away as possible from. _Not true,_ John chimed from the back of his mind, not loud enough to drown out Molly’s words, though.

“The Science of Deduction.”

He almost snapped his neck from the speed with which he looked at her, “what?”

“I found your blog. It’s really quite fascinating,” she smiled sincerely; judging by the look on his face, not many people had told him that. She leaned forwards, intrigued, “I had no idea there were so many different types of tobacco ash.”

Sherlock could feel his face burning as he squirmed in his seat, “oh, yes…well…”

“What’s your most interesting case?” Molly asked, leaning back in her chair to listen intently.

Sherlock smirked, clasping his hands again, “did you read The Pink Lady?”

* * *

“Amazing,” Molly smiled, shaking her head in disbelief as she popped another chip into her mouth – she and Sherlock had both moved over to the sofa when their food had arrived. She turned to him, still perplexed, “I remember reading that in the paper. No one knew the gun was a lighter?”

“Nope.”

“And John straight up shot that cab driver?” Sherlock nodded, playing with the remainder of his food as Molly scoffed, “my mates won’t even come to the cinema with me,” she glanced out of the corner of her eye, watching him poke at his dinner. She bit her lip, “were you right? About the pill?”

Sherlock shrugged, avoiding looking at her, “not sure. He refused to tell me.”

“Hmm…hey, maybe both pills were poisoned and he just didn’t swallow his. Chess, my arse, all criminals are liars, aren’t they?” She was too busy giggling at herself to notice how wide his eyes suddenly were and how he’d ditched the dinner plate completely. She reclined on the sofa, casually patting her stuffed stomach, “ah, what do I know? You’ve got this incredible skill and there’s me coming up with stupid stuff like that. God, what must you think of me?”

“Erm…” he swallowed, wondering just how to respond to the bombshell she’d just dropped. The worst thing was his mind was clogged with stupid facts about her to make room for more information on an old case. Just when he thought he was making progress of deleting the smell of her hair from her room in his mind palace, to make room, her hand landed on his thigh and his mind rearranged itself, making room to store the new sensation.

“I almost forgot…I’m having a sort of flat warming party this weekend. You and John are welcome to come if you want. Don’t worry, there won’t be many…just a small gathering. I can’t stand large parties,” she grimaced, waving a hand dismissively. Sherlock smiled tightly at her and nodded briefly, to Molly’s delight, “great,” she paused, tapping her chin thoughtfully, “I actually enjoyed myself tonight. Thanks…for letting me stay.”

Sherlock didn’t hear her, he was sat at the table with the cabbie, both of them holding their identical pills at their mouths. Molly’s smile floated beside the cabbie’s leer and her lips formed the words _cheater._ He shook his head rapidly, desperate to forget that obviously ridiculous scenario. He found himself nodding again and Molly patted his thigh a final time, standing up and gathering her bag.

“Do you need me to walk you home?” He asked stupidly, standing up with her. She laughed.

“No, I think I can manage,” he walked her to the door and she stopped, tilting her head as she smiled at him, “I think we can do this, you know? Be friends.”

He looked down at the hand she held out and hesitated, “you want to be friends?”

A cute frown appeared at her brow, “why not?”

“Everything! Everything I’ve done, everything I’m trying to do…” he answered incredulously, gesturing frantically. Molly raised her eyebrows, her mouth falling open.

“Wait…are you saying you still want me to leave?” At his answering nod and look on his face suggesting she’d said something stupid, Molly looked absolutely furious, “what?! B-but…we just spent all that time together, getting to know each other! I listened to your cases…I thought we were making progress. I was even going to let you use my body parts, you git,” she jabbed a finger at him which he quickly caught. He could feel his frustrations rising to the tip of his tongue, unable to keep his tongue any longer despite his best efforts. Frustrations at her, at himself for reacting to her but there was no stopping him now. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, Molly. You’re lying to yourself. We’re not meant to be friends. I don’t _want_ to be friends, befriending you is the last thing of my plans with you. The body is transport and I need to think; I cannot do that with you living right below me. The work is all that matters to me and you...you’ve interfered with that. You think you’re helping, you think you’re ‘making progress’…you’re making things worse. I do not need your distractions. Do you understand?”

Molly wrenched her hand free, more than a little hurt by his words and she stomped downstairs, throwing open her door and slamming it behind her. He violently kicked his own door closed, burying his face in his hands as he dropped onto the sofa, knowing he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps forehead* sherrrrrlock...


	4. Distractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is overwhelmed with guilt for hurting Molly and apologises to her. After drinking too much at her party, his dreams become rather vivid...and naughty.

_I need a case. SH_

The detective drummed his fingers against his phone as he waited impatiently for its reply. He was going to go mad if he didn’t have work soon, expire from sheer boredom. He needed to keep busy, he’d take _anything_ to resist heading downstairs and apologising to Molly Hooper. It was all her fault and yet _he_ felt compelled to apologise. Nothing about social interaction made sense to him.

_I thought you were in a rut. Girl problems, John said. GL_

Sherlock typed away fiercely in his haste to answer the very wrong Detective Inspector.

_Don’t be stupid. I’m fine. I’ve nothing to do with her. What do you have? SH_

_It’s called puberty, Sherlock. All the other boys and girls had to go through it. Now it’s your turn. GL_

He snarled and discarded his phone to the coffee table, climbing over it to begin a furious pace back and forth across the flat. Why was everyone so insistent on annoying him? If it wasn’t Graham Lestrade with his childish behaviour and John Watson with his constant breathing, it was Molly Hooper and her presence. His stomach twisted sickeningly as he thought about her, how he had upset her with his harsh words. Why on Earth did he even want to apologise? She’d never want to see him again this way. That was what he wanted. Sherlock ran his hands over his face, groaning into his palms.

“So…it went well, then?”

He didn’t know how long John had been sitting in his chair watching him nor did he care; he ignored the stupid knowing grin on the doctor’s face and stood in front of the window. He peered out in time to see Molly engaged in conversation with a delivery driver, a large parcel in her arms. She was smiling brightly, her hair swept into a messy bun – suddenly, the guilt was overwhelming and he was moving towards his door.

“You’re going to apologise?”

“Nope,” Sherlock quickly replied before slamming his door shut and thundering downstairs.

Logically, he should probably give her some time to freshen up and enjoy her morning – then again, the sooner he rid himself from this infernal guilt and apologised, the sooner he could get back to his daily routine…struggling to solve cases because of her. Oh, it would be so much easier to turn around and leave, attempt to work on cases and plot ideas to force her out of Baker Street. His actions contradicted his thoughts and before he could stop himself, he’d knocked at her door.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” he blurted out as soon as she opened the door. If Molly was surprised by his appearance, it didn’t show; instead, she folded her arms, refusing to look at him. Sherlock swallowed and stepped closer, “I have no excuse for my behaviour. You were right: we should be friends. And I…I’d like to try.”

Molly slowly looked up at him, her eyes narrowed suspiciously, “do you really mean that?” He nodded, hesitating far too long for Molly’s liking. She rolled her eyes, pushing at her door, “yeah, sure.”

“No, wait…” he seized the door frame before she managed to slam it shut, causing Molly to gasp in shock; all of a sudden, it was very important for him to make her understand how truly he needed her forgiveness, “let me make it up to you.”

After a short moment, Molly sighed and ran a hand through her hair, “well…I was just going to change-“

“Fine,” he answered impatiently, stepping past her into her flat and shedding his jacket. He smiled at her, “I can wait.”

“Oh, okay…” Molly faltered as she watched him shove his sleeves up to his elbows, his shirt buttons screaming in protest. She quickly closed her mouth and smiled, “um…I-I’ll just get ready. You could help me get ready for my flat warming, if you like.”

Sherlock didn’t answer in favour of staring blankly at her cat; the grumpy tabby swished his tail when he caught sight of his nemesis, hissing when the tall human sat beside him. On _his_ sofa. The nerve. Molly rolled her eyes and trudged to her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

* * *

Not fifteen minutes later, Molly emerged to find the consulting detective tentatively smoothing her beloved cat, Toby. Apparently, all was forgiven if Toby’s purring was anything to go by. Even Sherlock looked content to just sitting with the animal. She smiled fondly, watching the scene from her door – it didn’t take much to win around the old tabby. And Sherlock was much less, well, Sherlock like this, all quiet and focused, stroking his long fingers across her feline’s fur.

“Shall we begin?”

Molly jumped, unaware he’d noticed her watching him; she blushed furiously as he turned to look over his shoulder. He flashed her a brief smirk before his gaze properly fell upon her; his eyes swept over the snug floral sundress before travelling up to her loose hair. She bit her lip self-consciously as he got to his feet, frowning slightly. With every step closer to her, Molly’s breath caught until he was right in front of her.

“You…” Sherlock cleared his throat, wondering where the sudden roughness to his voice had come from, “you’re wearing that?”

“Yeah,” Molly smoothed down the dress, glancing down. She looked up almost immediately in worry, “why, what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock quickly replied – the last thing he wanted to do was offend her again, “nothing at all…you look-“ he trailed off as a thousand words rushed to the front of his mind, all completely inappropriate to tell her just how ravishing she looked. Molly raised an eyebrow, wringing her hands. Soon, the consulting detective lost his nerve and shook his head, “sorry, um…what did you need?”

“Balloons,” Molly sighed, her heart sinking in disappointment – she’d been so close to a compliment. Or so she thought. He followed her to the sofa and she handed him the packet of balloons, “you start on these. I’ll do the food.”

They quickly busied themselves with their jobs, eager to avoid one another – for Molly, it was his lips. For some reason, she was fascinated with watching him inflate the balloons, reading ‘new home’ once expanded. As for Sherlock, he had to force himself to concentrate on his task. Molly had her back to him, her hips providing a puzzling distraction. The way they swayed as she worked, the way she hummed under her breath and, most annoyingly, the way she sucked the icing from her fingers. He turned back to the coffee table, realising he had barely started on the pointless decorations.

“Do you want some help there?” Molly asked with a giggle, wiping her hands on her…cherry patterned apron. Dear God, what was she trying to do to him?

“No, thank you…” he snapped, refusing to look at her as he snatched up one of the balloons. The pathologist frowned; oh, she wasn’t about to let him go off on one of his little huffs. She approached him with surprising speed and swiped the balloon from his grasp.

“Maybe if you try this…” she pulled and stretched at the rubber balloon, shaking it around; she was smirking like she was better than him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and got to his feet, grabbing the balloon back.

“I’m not a child.”

Temper rising, Molly once again seized the balloon, “hmm, could have fooled me.”

Right, that was it. He was sick of her. Sick of everything she’d done to him. One quick movement later, he had hold of her wrist, attempting to prise the balloon from her fingers. However, where Molly was small in size, she more than made up for it in strength, throwing him off and shoving him to the sofa. He tried to take it a final time and a scuffle ensued, which ended with a squealing Molly on her back on the sofa and Sherlock hovering over her, looking quite pleased with himself despite the balloon lying forgotten on the ground. He was sick of her, her stunningly brown eyes, her soft hair he’d accidentally brushed away from her face, her parted lips and heavy breathing-

“Am I interrupting something?”

Sherlock and Molly jumped to their feet, both blushing red when they finally turned to find an amused blonde woman standing in Molly’s doorway. Before Molly could offer up and explanation, the detective took up his jacket from her sofa and cleared his throat.

“I should go, Molly. Thank you for…” he gestured around, unable to find the words. He nodded quickly at her friend and departed the flat without another word. Molly blushed harder as her best friend, Mary Morstan, smirked at her.

“Was that him?”

* * *

A small gathering. A. Small. Gathering. Sherlock remembered those convincing words exactly. This was not his idea of a ‘small gathering’. He and John were a small gathering, Mycroft and two cake stores was a small gathering. Molly Hooper’s flat warming was a near rave. Music blasted from her small radio, people chittered and drunkenly laughed at the downright stupid things. A mess of food and empty drink bottles littered the once clean space, Toby had sought safety under the table. Molly was busy conversing with her friends, chuckling over something stupid he’d said.

Sherlock sniffed, eyeing up the stranger from his dark vantage point: the far corner of Molly’s packed living room. He was short, blond, wore glasses…Sherlock’s gaze found the man’s ring finger, finding a golden band sitting pretty. He smirked, sipping his far too sweet punch – that had been the blonde woman’s task, apparently. John had long since abandoned him in search of female company. Honestly, the man was ludicrous. Consulting detective he may be but that didn’t mean he could understand the man’s appetite for such acts. He rolled his eyes as yet another single woman started marching with fierce determination towards him.

“Janine!” Molly called at the woman approaching Sherlock, waving her over, “help me choose the next song!”

“Can’t you do it yourself?” The woman replied in a pleasant Irish accent. Molly merely glared and the woman known as Janine stalked away, waving at him over her shoulder.

Now that was very curious. _Molly didn’t like her talking to me. Molly didn’t want her flirting with me. Molly stopped her…_ he suppressed the idiotic thoughts. He was a _detective_ , a man of science and seduction. _Deduction! Deduction_. He looked down at his punch, blinking repeatedly.

“Enough of that, I think.”

Sherlock replaced his glass onto the table, sidling his way across the wall towards the bathroom; once he’d stumbled inside, he threw water over his face and leaned against the wall. By the time he returned to the living room, everyone had disappeared. There was just Molly, throwing rubbish into a plastic bag…hair wild and lips singing along silently to the quieter music. She jumped when she noticed him, half-standing, half-slumping where he stood.

“I thought you left ages ago,” he simply shook his head, staring at the ground. Molly raised an eyebrow, discarding the rubbish bag and approaching him, “you didn’t have the punch, did you? My stupid mates thought it would be funny to pour everything I had in there. The smell alone could knock out a giant.”

“I’m fine,” he smiled widely, concentrating all his energy on standing up straight and trying to determine which Molly Hooper was the real one. If only she’d stop moving, “thank you for…inviting me. I had a…time.”

“Well, thank you for coming,” she watched him stagger to her door, biting back a laugh at each failed attempt to open it, “do you want me to take you upstairs?”

“No, no…not yet,” he sighed, shaking his head repeatedly. He finally succeeded in pulling the door open, giggling in delight, “you’re not supposed to know.”

Molly frowned in confusion, “are you sure you’re-“

“Shhh!” Sherlock tripped over in his haste to reach her, clumsily covering her mouth with his and pressing a finger to his own lips, “iss a secret.”

Molly merely nodded, even though she had no idea what he was on about. Perhaps he didn’t either. Her answer seemed to satisfy him; he removed his hand and pressed a sloppy kiss to her cheek, whistling a nonsense tune as he lumbered back to his flat. It was at times like this that Molly was pleased she wasn’t a heavy drinker.

* * *

How Sherlock had managed to make his way to his bedroom, strip down to his underwear and then redress himself in his pyjamas was a mystery. He couldn’t recall much after Molly’s cheek had somehow wound up beneath his lips. Her skin was soft; he’d been afraid of that. Sherlock gulped down an entire glass of water before crawling into bed, determined not to think of Molly Hooper for the rest of his life. He reached for his phone, groaning at the blinding light. He opened the new message.

_I did keep it. Mollyx_

In his inebriated state, the world’s only consulting detective had no idea of the meaning behind Molly’s words and shrugged, tossing the phone aside. He’d just settled down and started to drift off when the most unusual noises began from upstairs, John’s bedroom. There were moans…words of encouragement, plenty of giggling- ahhh, he was _entertaining_ again. How wonderful. He sighed dramatically, having no choice but to listen to the near pornographic sounds from upstairs. He wondered who it could be…the Irish woman had been on the prowl. He hadn’t seen Molly’s blonde friend all evening; then again, he had spent all evening watching her, taking her in…

He closed his eyes, eager to ignore the noises. His mind had other ideas, playing out the scene as if he were a participant; the woman was clearly enjoying herself, biting her lip and tossing her long brown hair, expressing her pleasure with sighs and gasps. Molly smirked down at him, lifting the floral dress and throwing it somewhere over her shoulder. Sherlock’s imagination did its best with all he’d learned from observing her, her tiny frame, her cute shoulders…oh, she was fit. His large hands could cover her breasts, he was certain. Something to test out in the future. She seemed to like that, moaning in time with John’s lady. His treacherous mind continued its show and soon Molly was swivelling her hips deliciously and moaning his name. John and his mystery woman were rapidly fading from his mind; his hands were at work again, tugging her down to crash her thin lips to his. The sounds from upstairs died down at last but he wouldn’t be so lucky – he was quite content to thoroughly snog Molly Hooper in his mind. The physical reaction to the imaginary stimulation was near painful and, before he could stop himself, he was reaching for the fastenings on his pyjama bottoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *well that escalated quickly :>


	5. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A misunderstanding leads Molly to believe her best friend, Mary, slept with Sherlock. Incensed, the pathologist storms off and meets an interesting colleague.

The dazzling morning light streamed through the partially drawn curtains, effectively waking the snoozing detective sprawled on his lavish double bed. He wrenched his eyes open, immediately regretting the decision.  As he blinked away the tears, Sherlock sat up and groaned at the pain it brought to his head; he looked around the blurry room, his stomach lurching unpleasantly. Funny, he didn’t recall drinking all that much. Now that he thought about it – longer than his usual not-hungover self would have needed – the only thing he could remember was Molly. He frowned, rubbing at his eyes and throwing away the sticky sheets with his other hand. He paused, releasing a long sigh. _Oh, perfect._ Sherlock quickly glanced around the room, breathing a sigh of relief at the realisation he was in fact alone. Hmm, interesting. So…he’d either had an erotic dream or pleasured himself in his sleep. Either way, that was the last time Sherlock Holmes was ever drinking. He quickly rolled out of bed, ignoring his body’s protest at the speed in which he did so and stripped the sheets, his pyjamas following suit.

Shrugging on his dressing gown, he bundled up the fabrics and shuffled into the empty hall, breathing a sigh of relief that John wasn’t yet awake as he scurried over to the washing machine. After sorting out the potentially embarrassing situation, Sherlock tied his dressing gown and turned, finding an unfamiliar blonde woman leaning against his kitchen table, grinning knowingly at him. He could almost feel his skin drain of all colour. _Dear God, what happened last night? Explains the mess…no, surely not._ The woman, wearing nothing but a tatty old shirt ( _oh shiiiit)_ replaced her mug of coffee and folded her arms.

“Morning.”

“Erm…” he cleared his hoarse, dry throat and forced a smile, avoiding looking at her as he tiptoed around the table, heading for the safety of his bedroom, “good morning.”

Apparently, the woman wasn’t finished making conversation, “did you sleep well?”

“Fine.”

He mumbled barely audibly, wondering if he should say something. What was it John always said? _I’m not looking for a serious relationship. It’s not you, it’s me. I prefer your friend._ Sherlock braced himself, preparing to give the lady all three excuses at once when he finally looked at her, noticing the tatty old shirt. He’d seen it before – plaid, short, fraying and comfortable. Immediately, it was as though a weight had been lifted from his chest and he fought the urge to laugh. The woman – Mary, he remembered with a grimace – was eyeing him curiously.

“You okay, there?”

“We didn’t have sex,” he replied without thinking, far too occupied with the return of his observational faculties. Mary, meanwhile, had inhaled some of her coffee and was busy choking and spluttering. Sherlock quickly corrected himself, “sorry, one of us didn’t…”

Having finished with her choking fit, Mary laughed and patted herself with a tea towel, “you don’t know much about human nature, do you?”

“’fraid not,” he glanced at the woman, taking her in. _Nurse, only child, romantic, bakes own bread, linguist, secret tattoo (except to John Watson), short-sighted, cat lover_ \- was that how she knew Molly? Did they attend cat-owner meetings? He shook his head, nodding at the woman he’d probably be seeing a lot more of, “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Mary Morstan. Nice to meet you…” she smiled, wiping her hands on the old shirt before offering one to the detective, which he politely shook. After several awkward minutes, Mary glanced at her watch, “mmm, it’s getting late…look, I think I’m just going to get dressed and go. It’s for the best. Tell John…I had fun.”

“Well, I-”

She was already hurrying away before he could finish his sentence, silently closing John’s bedroom door behind her; Sherlock sighed, switching on the washing machine and running a hand through his hair. Well, she certainly wasn’t the worst John had ever brought home…

* * *

Molly massaged at her lower back, groaning at the tension from leaning over a bench for most of the morning – blood samples, filing reports, awaiting analysis…certainly not her most favourite part of the job. She preferred studying the human body post-mortem, discovering things about how people had lived their lives and maybe even assisting with their deaths. She rubbed at her eyes, retrieving her phone from her pocket, frustrated at the lack of messages from her best friend. She usually messaged to reassure her of her safety getting home. No calls, texts, letters from prison. Nothing. She was almost thankful for the consulting detective’s appearance a minute later.

“Hey, do you know what happened to my mate, Mary?” She looked up at him, deciding it best to elaborate when met with a puzzled expression, “I haven’t heard from her since last night…and she usually texts. I mean, she tends to get a bit _friendly_ when she’d been drinking-“

“Mary Morstan?” The hungover detective questioned, slowly trudging over to a vacant stool, shrugging off his coat along the way. Molly nodded, smiling as he yawned widely – apparently, his mental faculties took a while to reboot. He dragged a hand down his face, “she spent the night in my flat.”

After several minutes of silence, Sherlock peered through narrowed eyes ( _far too bright in this damned lab!_ ) in the direction of the pathologist, finding her staring at him blankly. She almost looked shocked. Her phone fell back into her pocket.

“Oh…”

He nodded, another yawn escaping him. Molly turned back to her bench, her mind whirling. Well…no wonder Mary hadn’t text her, she’d been so frightfully _busy_.  How did that even happen? When did the two of them meet? He’d been stuck in the corner the entire night. And now they were finally getting on…had Mary ruined that? Oh God, what if he wanted _more_? Molly couldn’t quite stomach the thought. She cleared her throat and gestured at the door.

“Um, I’m getting coffee. Do you want one?

Sherlock furrowed his brow, wondering why she refused to look at him – he didn’t look _that_ bad, did he? “I thought you said-“

“It’s a one off,” she nearly growled and Sherlock wasted no time in nodding, opening his mouth only to be cut off, “yeah, yeah, black, two sugars. I know…”

She was gone in a flurry of white coat before he could ask how she knew – well, _someone_ had woken up on the wrong side of the bed. Unless he’d managed to do something between walking into the morgue and sitting down? _Her favourite stool?_ He shrugged, turning to the microscope a little too fast. He blinked his focus and stared through the lens, taking far too long to realise he actually needed something to look at. He glanced at Molly’s bench, noticing she’d left her samples entirely unattended; well, he thought as he stood up from his stool, she could only benefit from his input.

* * *

Molly almost stormed towards the coffee machine at the end of the hallway, her hand burrowing in her pockets for her spare change – _how could she?_ Typical Mary! Jump into bed with the one person on the planet she was trying to get along with. Her relationship with Sherlock was fragile at best – after last night, it may even be considered pleasant. He attended her party, stayed in the corner all night but Molly still counted it as a victory. And he hadn’t mentioned evicting her for a while.

Silently vowing not to give a toss about her best friend’s new relationship, Molly withdrew her coins and proceeded to slot them into the machine; she took a moment to wonder why exactly it bothered her so much. Yes, Mary was single and John’s blog showed no indication that the detective was taken. He had the potential to hurt Mary…yes, that must be it. Nothing to do with his stupid, handsome face. Or his tight shirts (Jesus, was he sewn into the things or what?) Molly shook her head, blinking at the coffee machine which was still and silent; she shook the machine in irritation, muttering curses under her breath.

“Um, you have to choose the one you want…”

Molly instantly stopped and whirled to face the timid sounding voice. The man, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, gestured at the machine the pathologist was almost vandalising in fit of what he probably thought of as insanity. Molly glanced between the gentleman and the machine, giggling at her foolish mistake…a little too hard.

“Yeah, that might help,” she smiled timidly, pressing one of the coffee buttons. She glanced at her quite handsome saviour – nice eyes, cute smile, good dresser ( _see? There’s plenty of them!_ ) – and nodded politely, “thank you, um…”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Jim…err, I work in IT, just downstairs,” he gestured behind him, running his other hand nervously through his short black hair. He faced her again, smiling shyly as he wrung his hands, “and you?”

“I’m Molly,” she politely replied, shaking his nice firm hand, trying her hardest to avoid staring at the decent amount of neck the grey V-neck flaunted – it was no purple shirt, though. She blushed hard, looking away, “it was nice to meet you, Jim. If I have any more coffee related emergencies, I know where to find you.”

“I’ll be on standby,” he winked, watching her walk away until she reached the end of the corridor; Molly turned back and waved at the handsome stranger, who wiggled his fingers back at her.

When Molly entered the morgue, she found Sherlock leaning over her microscope, a look of intense concentration on his face – she couldn’t care less what he was up to as she sat at her desk, a small smile spreading across her face as she thought back to her encounter with Jim from IT. He seemed nice, interesting, _interested._ She really didn’t ask for much more than that.

“Where’s the coffee?”

Molly looked up to see Sherlock looking at her, an eyebrow arched in amusement. She glanced down at her desk, realising only then that she’d returned empty handed. She bit her lip, blushing hard, “I forgot it.”

“Isn’t that what you went for?”

Molly’s blush only grew, “well, yeah, but-“

They were interrupted by Jim entering the lab, he, too, blushing when he realised both occupants were staring at him – he raised the cup of coffee and approached Molly’s desk.

“Hi, again…” he smirked, placing the coffee on her desk followed by his hands in his pockets - Sherlock gave Molly a knowing look, a look that to her read:  _oh you DID forget, didn't you?_ She chose to ignore him, “...and I noticed you left without it,” he glanced between the tall man and Molly, and furrowed his brow, “am I interrupting something-“

“No!”

Both Molly and Sherlock answered instantly; the detective watched as the pathologist found it necessary to get up from her seat and hug the weird looking stranger, thanking him once again for his ‘kindness’ and ‘thoughtfulness’ and ‘oh so sweetness’. The detective rolled his eyes at the sickening sight.

“If you really want to thank me, you can come to dinner with me?”

Before Molly could answer, Sherlock sighed heavily, whispering under his breath, “oh, for God’s sake.”

“Ignore him, Jim. I would love to,” Molly smiled, regretting the emphasis she’d put into ‘love’. She glanced behind her noticing Sherlock, who suddenly seemed much more alert, shoving his gloves back into his pocket. Jim was grinning happily when she looked back at him and her heart swelled.

“221 Baker Street,” Sherlock smugly provided, handing the IT technician a card, “you’ll find dear Molly and I have the same address.”

Molly had never wanted to hurt anyone more than in that instant, especially since Sherlock refused to stop smiling at her in his stupid smug style. Jim looked up from the card, tilting his head.

“You two live together?”

This time, Sherlock and Molly’s answers contradicted one another and Molly glared at her companion, wondering if this was a new method of initiating her departure from 221C.

“No, we don’t live together,” she assured Jim, shooting Sherlock another glare, “I’m under him…” the two men’s eyebrows shot up and Molly quickly added, “the flat! I meant the flat under his.”

“Oh, right,” Jim nodded, looking once again to Sherlock, still smiling, before swooping down to kiss Molly on the cheek, “I’ll see you later, Molly.”

“Thanks again, Jim,” Molly smiled far too sweetly for the detective’s liking but the Irish buffoon by the door didn’t seem to mind, waving at her a final time before leaving them in peace. Molly was on cloud nine for the rest of the day and nothing Sherlock could say would bring her down.

* * *

“Do you think she hates me?” John asked for the tenth time that evening, staring at his phone in annoyance, “do you think I did it wrong? I couldn’t have done it wrong. Can you even do it wrong?”

“Why are you asking me?” Sherlock responded somewhat distractedly, still peering out of the window – he hadn’t moved since he returned home, every now and then checking his watch and tugging the curtain aside to look down.

“Mmm. Maybe I should ask Molly.”

Sherlock shook his head, “nah, she’s in an odd mood. She’s going on a _date_. A complete stranger. Unbelievable.”

“A date?” John repeated, confused, “but what about-“ he caught his friend’s eye and quickly shut his mouth, hoping the clueless genius couldn’t read his expression.

His irritated bark of frustration told him otherwise, “what?”

“Nothing,” John answered, dropping his gaze back to his phone.

He couldn’t help but smile as he watched the detective almost fall through the window when a car dared to stop outside their flat, only for it to be a random person. He would then swear and ruffle his hair, glancing at his watch. It was clear to the army doctor what was going on. He didn’t dare ask what Sherlock’s plan was when Jim did arrive. He was distracted from the show by his vibrating phone.

“Oh my God,” John grinned excitedly, springing up from his chair; he waved his phone in exaggeration, “she gave me her address.”

“Mmm.”

“You going to be okay?” John pulled on his coat, looking over his frantic, dishevelled friend. Sherlock didn’t answer and John rolled his eyes, pocketing his phone, “right, well, don’t wait up.”

He all but ran downstairs, bumping into the dolled up pathologist returning from putting out her tabby; she smiled at him, folding her arms, “you look like you’ve had a bit of luck.”

“Yeah, your mate, Mary,” he patted his phone in answer to her confused look, “I’ve been texting her all day. She’s great fun, thanks for introducing us.”

“ _You_ slept with Mary?” Molly quickly schooled her shocked expression before she damaged John’s ego; she smiled, half-laughing with her relief, “no, it’s just…now I know why she hasn’t been talking to me. Must be sleeping it off.”

“Well, she’s recovered now,” John winked, dashing out of the door to hail a cab; he waved at Molly and she couldn’t help but giggle at him, waving back – he was almost childlike in his enthusiasm.

Molly closed the door behind her and allowed herself to smile, her mind doing ecstatic cartwheels – _Mary didn’t sleep with Sherlock!_ She shouldn’t be so relieved; it didn’t really matter. She had Jim, now. Molly fluffed at her hair when she passed the mirror, smoothing down her modest dress before gathering up her phone. Now she thought about it, she’d agreed to Jim’s offer of a date rather quickly – was it out of jealousy? Had she really been jealous of Mary? She shook her head, drawing out a breath as she typed a cancellation message to Jim.

Before she could send it, however, an ear-splitting explosion ripped through the street opposite, shattering her windows and knocking her off of her feet, sending glass cascading around her body; Molly had just enough thought to cover her face, groaning in agony as she did. She could vaguely hear people screaming in the distance; the last thing Molly registered was someone shouting and lifting her into their arms before she lost consciousness.


	6. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of the explosion, Molly finds herself confused by her feelings for both Sherlock and Jim. Meanwhile, the consulting detective battles a serious case of the green-eyed monster.

“Call an ambulance.”

“Sherlock said to leave her here.”

At the sound of the low murmuring voices, Molly’s head rolled restlessly on the cushions placed beneath her neck. Her head throbbed painfully but she managed to open her eyes a fraction. She was lying on the sofa in the upstairs flat, 221B, covered by some sort of heavy blanket. Her forehead felt damp, cold and sore…she guessed someone was pressing a cold cloth against her injury. Molly glanced off to the side where Mrs. Hudson was sitting beside her, stroking through her hair as she tended her wound; she appeared shaken but thankfully unharmed.

She then peered towards the direction of the second voice, the one she hadn’t recognised. The man it belonged to was dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit, prodding a stray piece of glass with the tip of his umbrella. He was shaking his head, his lips quirking into a smile - for some reason, the sight seemed rather unsettlingly familiar to the pathologist.

“Mrs. Hudson, this woman is the reason my dear brother is out getting chips instead of searching for the man who did this.”

Mrs. Hudson waved him off, “oh, you Holmes boys love to exaggerate, don’t you?”

 _Oh, great. There’s two of them._ Molly couldn’t help but groan aloud, alerting the other two occupants that she was indeed awake.

“Oh, how are you feeling, dear?” Mrs. Hudson asked sweetly, lightly dabbing at her forehead with the cold cloth. Molly hissed in pain at the contact.

“Like hell,” she croaked, blinking rapidly as she tried to focus on the damage – the windows were completely shattered, allowing a cold breeze to sweep through the flat, upsetting Sherlock’s papers. It was still dark outside – how long had passed since the explosion? Minutes? Hours? She looked to the suited man, attempting to push herself up, “where’s Sherlock?”

“Giacomo Casanova, you mean?” He questioned with a gleeful smile, lowering himself into his brother’s chair, his fingers toying with the top of his umbrella. He ignored Mrs. Hudson’s glare as he continued, “…shouldn’t be long.”

“Is he alright? Was he hurt?” She asked hurriedly, trying once again to sit up only to be stopped by Mrs. Hudson.

“He’s fine, dear, absolutely fine,” she smiled kindly, dropping the cloth into the bowl beside the sofa, “actually, I think he ran straight down to-“

“Yeees,” Sherlock’s brother interrupted, throwing daggers towards Mrs. Hudson, “anyway, I doubt you’ll want to stay at Baker Street after tonight’s events, Miss Hooper, hmmmm?”

Molly blinked rapidly, unsure of what to say, “well, I-“

“Leave her be, Mr. Holmes. She took a very nasty knock,” Mrs. Hudson chastised, getting to her feet to drain the bowl of water.

Molly took the opportunity to push herself up and assess her forehead – she retrieved the mirror from the coffee table and held it to her face. A deep cut was visible above her eye – she must have hit her head after the explosion. The heavy blanket that had been keeping her warm had fallen away with her movements and she hauled it back into place. It was then she noticed it wasn’t a blanket at all but the detective’s famous coat, the one he wore in the newspapers. Her heart jolted as she realised, post-explosion, Sherlock had immediately rushed to her aid, disregarding his own safety and possible injuries, carried her upstairs and draped her in his coat; she felt an annoying rush of affection for the sod in that moment.

“Mr. Holmes, if you want me to leave, you’ll have to drag me out kicking and screaming,” Molly said with surprising determination, never breaking eye contact with the strange man.

Sherlock’s brother narrowed his eyes, “it can be arranged.”

Before Molly could laugh derisively at him (he was trying to be threatening whilst brushing dust from an obviously £500+ suit, for goodness sakes), Sherlock swept inside the flat, speaking rapidly to his brother as he deposited the bags of chips on the table, “at the risk of damaging Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper, I think you should leave things be, Mycroft.”

He threw a sarcastic smile over his shoulder towards his brother, the latter attempting another protest regarding Molly’s living arrangements. It proved in vain for Sherlock simply ignored him, gathering plates and cutlery from various unusual places in the kitchen. The well-dressed elder brother - _Mycroft_ \- sensed a losing battle and sighed heavily, leaving their presence without so much as a goodbye. The tension in the room instantly became awkward with Mrs. Hudson hovering by the sink, staring blankly into the basin.  A loud clearing throat interrupted her thoughts and she began hastily drying her hands on a tea towel.

“Well, that’s enough excitement for one night, I think,” she chuckled, bustling over to the sofa and smiling down at the pathologist, “if you need anything in the night, Molly-“

“She’ll be fine, Mrs. H, isn’t it time for your soothers?”

With a roll of her eyes and a whispered _‘it’s for my hip’_ to Molly, she shuffled out of the flat, muttering expletives under her breath about her fussy tenant. The cold flat fell into a tense silence once again as Sherlock continued to prepare the two portions of chips he’d brought back; Molly took the opportunity to look him over. He was thankfully uninjured, albeit covered in dust and small cuts across his face and hands. She looked away quickly, wringing her hands nervously; what was she supposed to say to him after such an event?

"Molly..."

The pathologist shook her head quickly, looking up into lovely blue-green eyes, then down at the plate of chips Sherlock was holding out for her. She took them, blushing profusely as he sat opposite her on the sofa, adjusting their legs to make room. She mumbled a ‘thanks’ and began shovelling the chips into her mouth, the mouth-watering smell making her realise just how hungry she was.

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock suddenly said, waving a hand towards the door, “you shouldn’t have to deal with him…even when you’re healthy.”

Molly swallowed the embarrassing amount of food in her mouth and smiled softly, “I don’t think he likes me.”

“Don’t take it personally. He hates everyone.”

“Family trait,” Molly replied cheekily, her smile widening when he looked up, a stupidly handsome smirk on his own lips.

“Well, not everyone.”

Molly could only assume he was referring to John or Mrs. Hudson; from his brief apology on behalf of his brother, she could tell they didn’t get along.  She was more than relieved that they had reached this stage of their, well, friendship, she supposed. True, he more often than not snapped at her in frustration but at least he’d accepted her stubbornness and general refusal to leave. Molly hungrily devoured her chips, savouring each delicious bite; her eyes widened as she suddenly remembered why she was so hungry.

“Oh, God…Jim!”

Due to the fact her face was buried in her hands, Molly missed the frown Sherlock was giving her. He continued to scowl as he picked at his own chip bag.

“He didn’t turn up. So sorry,” was all he said, sarcastically and bluntly. After a few moments, Molly shrugged, her hand repeatedly delving onto her depleting plate of chips.

“It doesn’t matter, really. I don’t think I was that serious about it to be honest.”

She gave a short smile before continuing to eat, making it clear she wasn’t in the mood to discuss it further. It was probably for the best; Jim was lovely but, in all honesty, her haste in agreeing to go out with him was a feeble attempt to make Sherlock jealous. Jim probably sensed this and Molly reasoned it was why he failed to show up. It was a waste of time, anyway. Sherlock didn’t feel those things, not for her, not for anyone. They finished their chips in peace, neither daring to look at the other. It was a good ten minutes after they’d both finished and were staring into space that Molly broke the silence.

“Um, that was nice. What you did.”

He seemed confused for a brief moment until he frowned, “I couldn’t leave you there.”

“Why not?” Molly pressed, discarding her plate on the coffee table and folding her arms, “if you’d left me there, I’d be on my way out of here.”

“Molly, a bulldozer couldn’t get you out of here,” he smiled almost genuinely, his own plate joining hers, “I know when I’ve lost.”

Molly raised an eyebrow, not believing that blatant lie for one second, “really? Because what you did, Sherlock, whether you knew it or not, you saved me. You carried me upstairs to your flat, wrapped me up in your lovely coat and tended to me. You fed me chips!” She gestured at the empty plates and she could almost see Sherlock’s mind stutter over his accidental compassion, “what you did was made me realise I don’t want to go anywhere. And I certainly don’t want to lose you.”

Sherlock said nothing, although he did blink several times in an attempt to understand what had just happened. If he was being brutally honest with himself, he couldn’t imagine Baker Street without Molly Hooper and now, thanks to his actions this evening, he’d never have to. Before he could prepare himself, Molly sat up and leaned over the sofa, gently holding his face as she pressed her lips to his cheek. Every single second she lingered ignited a fire beneath his flesh which seemed to heat his insides, apparently forcing his heart to work twice as hard. His eyes were still closed when she pulled away, patting his knee awkwardly.

“Thank you for everything. I should get to bed…I tell you, I'm glad I've got the late shift tomorrow,” she chuckled, climbing to her feet unsteadily. Sherlock was giving her an odd look and Molly wondered if he was using that mind palace device thing John’s blog had mentioned. She sighed, courteously draping his coat over the chair, “goodnight, Sherlock.”

He stayed sitting cross-legged on the sofa long after she left, right up until John barrelled into the flat. He prattled on about the news and _‘thought you’d been fucking killed you utter prat’_ with the occasional _'Mary’s great. She’s just…great’_ thrown in. Sherlock wasn’t listening.; he was too busy focusing on wondering how Molly’s soft lips would feel pressed against his.

* * *

 Molly left the stuffy lab room and made her way towards the drinks machine at the end of the hall, craving a late afternoon coffee. The pain in her head had all but subsided although the mark on her forehead was more than a little noticeable – she hoped she’d managed to conceal most of it with her hair, which she’d left down that day.  She slipped a few coins into the machine, selecting her choice, pondering her day as the machine buzzed into life.

It was almost six in the evening and Sherlock hadn’t dropped by once, sending John on his behalf. The army doctor had explained he was spending the day at home, working on the bomb case. She wasn’t going to lie to herself, she’d missed him. John was nice but he wasn’t tall, in possession of a deep, nearly illegal tone of voice, dark curly hair that looked like pure silk, tight _tight_ shirts or lovely cheekbones – yes, the detective was a treat to glimpse at working in the lab. That, and Sherlock didn’t go on and on about her own best friend, Mary, every chance he could. Molly sighed, shaking her head ever so slightly. Developing a crush on Sherlock was a massive mistake, one she wouldn’t survive. But, damn it, if she wasn’t enjoying herself.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a large cookie being waved in front of her face, the arm doing the waving belonging to one Jim from IT. He was smiling sympathetically.

“Peace offering?”

Molly giggled despite herself, shyly taking the cookie, “hello, Jim.”

“Listen, Molly…I’m really sorry about last night. My mum was sick and I had to- oh, my God, what happened?” Jim soon caught sight of her forehead, gently moving her hair away from the wound.  Molly waved him off, stuttering for an explanation.

“Oh, I- err, it’s nothing. Walked into the door. I’m so clumsy,” she smiled awkwardly, brushing her hair back into place.

“Ran into it by the looks,” he said, concern clear in his tone. Molly, on the other hand, was keen to divert the conversation away from the explosion.

“Did you want something?”

Jim watched as she took her coffee, carefully sipping the liquid with her nice lips. He smiled, “a second chance.”

Molly hesitated, glancing down into her coffee cup. Oh, hell! He was nice, so very nice…but it wasn’t fair to him, being used to get over a non-existent relationship. Okay, Molly did feel attracted to him and perhaps they could make it work and her feelings for Sherlock would just disappear. She looked up at him, smiling and bouncing on his heels awaiting her answer. _Fuck it._ She nodded, nibbling at the cookie.

“I’ll see you tonight. We’ll stay in; I’ll cook something nice. Nine sound okay?”

Jim looked briefly shocked before he nodded enthusiastically, “yeah. Great. See you later.”

As he bounded away towards the staircase, Molly felt confident she’d made the right decision.

* * *

Sherlock was already at his wit’s end with the bloody case and he’d barely got stuck into it. The wreckage of the opposite flat was insurmountable, nothing had survived the blast. His investigations led him to the conclusion the explosion had been caused by a Semtex vest, worn by the perpetrator. Trying to explain this to the Scotland Yard lot was like attempting to teach a penguin to sing opera and he’d stormed away furiously. Molly Hooper wasn’t helping, popping into his head at every opportunity, enticing him with lips and whatnot. It was ridiculous. He was a grown man, needing work and only work to stimulate him. The Molly Hooper his mind palace provided had far different ideas, though, shifting his focus further and further away from his case. The distraction provided more questions than answers and, with John back at Mary’s for the night and Mrs. Hudson ‘giving Billy a decent polishing for once’, Sherlock decided the only way he was going to ignore the…whatever it was for Molly, was to spend time with her doing what he needed to do. It was logic.

Freshly showered and clothed, he hurried downstairs two steps at a time; he quickly glanced at his watch, pleased to find it was past nine. He remembered from the rota of hers that he’d ‘borrowed’ her late shifts ended at eight, she’d get home, shower, make herself a dinner and settle down in front of some awful telly. Dull. He knocked at her door forcefully, almost excited to share this case with her. Not a moment later, Molly pulled open her door wearing what he could only describe as the most beautiful dress he’d ever seen, white and covered in cherries with a red belt and matching straps, her hair twisted into a loose bun. All thoughts of the case vanished from his mind as he contiuned to take her in, his cheeks growing warm. Molly had to snap her fingers to get his attention.

“Sorry, um…I…” he trailed off, looking past her shoulder at the man leaning back against her chair, giggling at the TV like a simpleton. His eyes narrowed, focusing back on Molly, “am I interrupting something?”

“Yes, actually,” Molly replied, folding her arms, “Jim and I-“

“Oh, you didn’t forgive that…idiot, did you?”

As Sherlock pinched at the bridge of his nose, Molly could feel her anger rising, “yes I did and he’s not an idiot. I happen to really like him. We’re on a date if you must know.”

“Doesn’t look like much of a date,” he muttered, peering back into the flat. Jim was absently scratching Toby, his eyes glued to the TV. Molly shrugged.

“Like you'd know what a date looks like," she scoffed, taking a step back in preparation to slam the door in his face, "it’s just a bit of fun. We’re watching Glee-”

“Ah, my favourite programme,” he smiled widely, pushing past her into the flat and plonking himself in the middle of the sofa, right between Jim and herself. Molly stared after him for a moment, before blowing a loose strand of hair from her eyes and pushing her door closed. It was going to be a long night…


	7. Thank You for Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Molly's argument about his presence at her date turns heated. Meanwhile, John breaks some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'bout time this fic earned its rating methinks

“Your favourite programme?”

“Yes.”

Molly continued to glare at the detective pressed up next to her, all muscles and curls, “what’s it about?”

The detective glanced at the screen, frowning slightly; he’d assumed the show to be a documentary exploring happiness and people’s experiences with the wretched feeling, hence the title. How wrong he was. It was all singing and dancing with the occasional meaningful message, with just the right amount of friendship and romance to keep someone like Molly entertained. And Jim, it seemed, judging by the way he was grinning at the screen and ignorant of their hushed conversation. Sherlock shrugged.

“Music.”

Her smirk was unbearable. “You don’t have a bloody clue!”

“I’m not wrong,” Sherlock replied, gesturing at the screen. Molly merely rolled her eyes, folding her arms defensively.

“There’s more to it than that, you insufferable sod,” she nudged his arm playfully, adding smugly, “the point is you lied…and I want to know why.”

Sherlock said nothing. In truth, he had no intention of lying to her when he arrived at her door, he merely wished to seek her advice on the blasted case he couldn’t seem to crack. However, upon seeing Jim stretched out on her sofa and petting her stupid feline, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to put a stop to any ridiculous attempt at romance. He could hardly tell Molly this, though. The pathologist wasn’t keen on dropping the subject either but, before she could grill him further, she was interrupted.

“Um, Moll, I think the dinner’s ready.”

Molly stared at Jim as though she’d previously forgotten he was there, much to Sherlock's inner delight. The awkward hostess squeaked and leapt to her feet, hurrying over to the oven. The IT technician continued to tickle the cat, peering out of the corner of his eye at the attractive stranger he’d briefly met in the morgue.

“So…you live upstairs?”

The head of curls didn't once remove his eyes from Molly, jumping up from the sofa with far too much enthusiasm, “need a hand-“

“Not from you, no,” Molly replied darkly, rummaging in one of her cupboards for plates. She removed two pointedly, glancing over her shoulder. She resisted the urge to sigh when she noticed Sherlock hadn’t even moved, “I only made enough for two,” the consulting annoyance opened his mouth and Molly quickly added, “for me and Jim.”

“Fine. I don’t eat when I’m working…digesting slows me down,” he smiled coldly, taking a seat at her worn dining table. Molly gritted her teeth but remained silent for fear of frightening off Jim. He, at least, seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Oh, that smells delicious, Molly,” Jim said, sliding into the seat next to Sherlock, much to the detective’s displeasure. Molly blushed as she served their…linguine, if he wasn’t mistaken. One thing was for sure, Molly was no chef.

“Thanks…it’s just one of those takeaway ready meals. A god send after a long shift at the Hospital…”

Jim smiled, reaching for the bottle of wine on the table. He unscrewed the cap and poured a more than generous amount into her glass, stopping just beneath the brim. Molly raised an eyebrow, striving to look and sound as flirtatious as possible as she leaned closer.

“Why, Jim, are you trying to get me drunk?”

He simply smirked, meeting her eye and giving her a quick wink; Molly shot a fleeting glance at Sherlock across the table, taking immense delight at the rolling of his eyes and folding of his arms. Her delight lasted until she saw her date had given the detective’s glass the very same treatment. The smug look on his face was infuriating. Molly refused to give him satisfaction; she sipped at her wine and smiled at Jim, leaning closer.

“So, Jim. Tell me about yourself.”

* * *

Sherlock aggressively dried his hands on one of Molly’s fluffy towels, throwing the offending item towards her laundry basket; he’d sought refuge in her bathroom after being forced to watch her sickeningly flirtatious display with Jim. The leaning, the whispering, the lingering touches…it was absolutely stomach churning. Jim had been driving him up the wall all night, laughing at Molly’s terribly morbid jokes and constantly refilling her glass. He was also a tosser, touching the detective’s own knee whenever he got chance and attempting to engage him with the pair's flirting. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the memory; he could clearly see what was going on. He expected better of Molly. Then again, she’d been too busy shooting daggers at him all night, silently asking him to leave so she could finish her date. Another memory that prompted an eye roll.

The bathroom door opened and Molly strolled inside, closing the door sharply behind her; he didn’t have to look at her to know she was still mad at him. She paced up and down in front of the bathroom door, giving him the death stare she'd perfected over dinner.

“What is the matter with you?”

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” he replied immediately. He’d spent a good while thinking of all possible answers should Molly have followed him after his dramatic exit. He was quite pleased he did.

Mollystood her ground, her temper rising with each word he said, “excuse me?”

“It’ll never last-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Molly interrupted, refusing to hear him out. She gestured at the door, “you have to leave.”

Sherlock frowned, not moving an inch, “why?”

“Oh, _why_ are you doing this?” Molly asked in exasperation, her hands running through her hair frantically. She looked at her wit’s end, “do you want me to be miserable? Is this another of your master plans to get me out of Baker Street?”

“He’s not the one, Molly,” Sherlock said bitterly, his own tone rising in anger. Why did people never listen to him? He was a certified genius, for God’s sake.

Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, “fine, whatever. Just get out. I do actually have one or two other things on my mind for tonight, you know.”

Sherlocked blinked in confusion - he could have sworn he'd heard someone say the exact same thing sometime previously. He scanned his mind palace, finding nothing. Instead, he asked, "like what?”

Molly paused, wondering if she should take him seriously. He was still standing there with a blank expression so, yes, she supposed. She glanced at the door, “well, you know…” Sherlock said nothing, still staring at her in confusion. She rubbed the back of her neck self-consciously, “I was sort of hoping to…” still nothing. Molly sighed in annoyance, hating her own shyness, “oh, for Christ’s sake. I wanted to have sex tonight.”

Something must have clicked within the consulting detective since he was suddenly strolling towards her, sighing out ‘ _oh, for God’s sake_ ’ before planting his lips firmly on hers, his hands cupping her cheeks. Molly’s eyes widened comically and she fisted his shirt, shoving him away from her.

“What are you doing?” She barely managed to sigh before pulling him back to her down to her mouth, the both of them moaning when their tongues met.

The small of her back bit into the low sink and before she knew it, she was being lifted onto the ledge, her mouth still very much connected with Sherlock’s. He snogged her thoroughly for several minutes, tearing his mouth away before her hands could get involved. He studied her reactions with deep satisfaction; blown pupils, heavy breathing and swollen lips. His fingers travelled up her thighs, pushing her dress up with them.

“Interesting,” he said in his husky voice, lowering onto his knees to kiss his way up her inner thighs. She could feel him smirking against her skin, “there’s an off button.”

"Shut up," she managed to breathe, equal parts stunned at the speed with which this was happening and powerless to stop it. Sherlock chuckled against her skin, nipping his way closer to his desired destination.

"Certainly, doctor."

With that, he tore at her knickers and set his mouth to work without so much as a warning. Molly gasped out, her body lurching forwards so far she would have fallen if it weren't for his firm hands across the top of her legs. Her fingers scrabbled at his hair, her nails driving into his scalp; he groaned against her wet centre, working his mouth frantically against her. Molly was forced to throw her free arm across her mouth to muffle the obscene amount of noise he was causing her to make; she responded by violently pulling at his hair, hoping that she was causing him some pain. If she was, he didn’t complain.

Sherlock was brutal, his tongue working wonders inside her body, his hands holding her in place. He smirked wickedly as Molly moaned her pleasure, throwing her head back and tugging violently at his hair. Oh, she was _wicked_. Her hips moved deliciously, gyrating against his expert mouth - he moved her legs over his shoulders, smirking wider at the new sounds this brought from her throat.

_"Sherlock..."_

He almost paused at the breathy sigh of his name. He looked up at her, taking in the way her head was thrown back, her eyes closed and her front teeth burrowed into her bottom lip. He swallowed, shaking his head slightly, unwilling to focus on her utter beauty in that moment. Instead, he kept ruthlessly driving his mouth into her until the inevitable outcome was her muffle cries and more tugging at his sensitive hair.

Molly slumped back against the mirror as Sherlock gracefully jumped to his feet. She panted heavily, her legs still splayed obscenely as she watched him slip one his loose buttons back into its slot; her gaze travelled down to the front of his trousers, her heart skipping a beat when she saw he was definitely hard and ready. She bit her lip again, looking up at him. Sherlock was glancing in the mirror, his usual stoic expression on his gorgeous face, still shining with evidence from their encounter. He quickly licked his lips obscenely, a hand rising to ruffle his unruly curls into place.

“Mmm, yes...I think that’ll do.”

He left her without another word, resisting the urge to skip over to the sofa where his jacket had long ago been abandoned. The idiot, Jim, sat at the recently repaired window, smoking a cigarette; how he was unaware of the unexpected turn of events that had just transpired in the bathroom, Sherlock didn't know but it was probably for the best. The detective was almost at the door when the git looked around.

“Oh, hey. We left you some dinner.”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively, shrugging on his jacket, “no, thanks. I couldn’t possibly eat another mouthful,” he paused, butterflies erupting in his stomach as he smirked slightly, “well, not yet.”

The look of utter confusion on Jim’s face as he closed the door to Molly’s flat was one he was sure he’d never forget.

* * *

The following morning, Sherlock was up and about rather early by his usual standards. He’d made tea and toast, humming a tune as the kettle boiled; Mrs. Hudson had walked in on him doing so and immediately questioned wh'd been murdered. He’d simply wished her a good morning and kissed her cheek which had prompted the elderly landlady to shove him into a seat and worriedly check his temperature. John trudged downstairs several minutes after the second lot of toast had been made, looking thoroughly depressed and knackered. He dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, propping his arm onto the table and resting his head against it. Sherlock wordlessly poured him tea.

“What’s the matter with you?”

Sherlock shrugged, “feeling generous. You?”

“Don’t want to talk about it,” John muttered darkly, sipping his tea silently. When it became apparent Sherlock was staring at him, the army doctor rolled his eyes and replaced the tea on the table, “Mary and I broke up.”

“Oh,” Sherlock didn’t know what to say, even with his new found good mood. Pity, he'd liked Mary. She was one of the better ones, if not the best of the lot. He reached over to pat John sympathetically on the shoulder but thought better of it and instead took another slice of toast from the plate in the centre of the table. He settled with a generic apology, “sorry. You two were, err, getting on.”

“She never said why,” John shrugged, staring into his cup of tea. He shook his head frantically, keen to change the subject, “anyway, what did you get up to last night? Did you get anywhere?”

Before Sherlock could answer, there was a timid knocking at their door. Jim from IT shuffled in, grinning stupidly; he was dressed in a far too short fluffy pink dressing gown…and nothing else.

“Um, sorry to interrupt. Could we borrow some milk, please?”

 John swallowed down his scalding hot tea in shock, his eyes filling with water. He hastily reached across the table and akwardly handed the half-empty carton to Jim who smiled and waved at the near statuesque detective opposite. He hurried back downstairs frantically and John snorted, shaking his head.

“Well, that’s cheered me up. Good on Molly. Looks like she had fun.”

He proceeded to clear up the breakfast things, failing to notice how Sherlock was still glaring at the spot beside their kitchen door.


	8. The Toatally Genius Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Molly's relationship hits a snag and Sherlock comes up with an outlandish plan to reunite John and Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's taken so long :/ I hope this chapter makes up for it a little...

Molly left her bedroom to find Jim exactly where she’d left him the previous night: perched on the sofa in front of her blaring telly, only this time he was fully dressed. He’d just finished tugging on his tie when she yawned widely, ruffling her hair as she made her way to the kitchen.

“Morning, Jim,” cups clattered and the kettle clicked as Molly set about preparing breakfast; she peered over her shoulder at her guest, smiling politely, “I hope the sofa wasn’t too uncomfortable.”

“No, it was fine. Thank you,” Jim replied sweetly, swinging his jacket over his shoulders. He carefully draped her tatty dressing gown over the back of the sofa before dashing to help her lay the table, winking at her cheekily.

The pathologist felt a rush of guilt as she watched Jim glide around her kitchen, humming a tune under his breath; here she was with a perfectly lovely and charming person who genuinely enjoyed her company but all she could think about was the git upstairs with the wicked mouth. God, she was _awful._

“One or two?”

Molly looked up quickly to see Jim gesturing a loaf of bread. She smiled, “err, one, please. Help yourself to whatever. Excuse me, I just need to…“ she gestured vaguely towards her bathroom and hurried off without another word.

Inside her bathroom, Molly leaned over her bathroom sink, repeatedly splashing her face with cold water; nothing she did seemed to rid the horrible feeling of dread in her heart. Whether they were an official couple or not, she had betrayed him. And as far as Sherlock Holmes was to be concerned, that was it. There was no way she was going to allow herself to expect anything more from him. Molly ruffled her hair, groaning into a towel. It wasn’t fair to Jim; he thought they’d shared a pleasant evening and were developing a relationship. Perhaps they were…were they? Molly liked Jim, she truly did, but could she ever love him? Sighing heavily, she left her bathroom and gathered her phone.

_34 minutes ago_

_We need to talk. I’m coming over. MMx_

Molly’s eyes widened and she dashed about her bedroom, throwing on her clothes at an impressive speed before marching out into her living room; Jim was sitting at the dining table, already finishing his first piece of toast. The fact that he’d laid the table and prepared her a plate made her feel worse.

“You have to leave,” she snatched his plate and mug, discarding them into the sink before he’d even had time to react. The IT technician frowned, jumping to his feet as Molly attacked the table with a wet cloth, “my mate’s coming over and, well, to say she’s a gossip is an understatement.”

Jim chuckled, “we didn’t actually do anything, Molly. And, so what if we did? People have office romances all the time.”

“Do you really want to sit in human resources and explain this whole thing?” Molly snapped, rather more harshly than she’d intended. She bit her lip, praying that he’d understand. Finally, Jim sighed.

“Good point.”

At the door, the two shared a lingering kiss before the pathologist ushered her colleague out into the hall…and straight into Mary. The blonde raised her eyebrows at the sight before her; her dishevelled friend was still holding the tall smug-looking stranger by the arm. She grinned, her arms folding.

“Well, well…you must be Jim. I’ve heard so much about you.”

Before Jim could respond, Molly jostled him towards the door, “sorry, Mary, Jim was just leaving. He has a long day,” she smiled over her shoulder. Turning back to Jim, she lowered her voice to a whisper, “sorry about this. I’ll see you at work.”

Molly was ready to close the door when suddenly Jim leaned over and cupped the back of her neck, pulling her close for a deep, passionate kiss. Molly squeaked, gripping the collar of his jacket as she responded shyly. When he finally let her go, he winked at Mary and practically skipped out onto the street. Stunned, Molly slowly closed the door and peered at her far too smug friend.  There were several moments of uncomfortable (for Molly) silence before Mary spoke.

“So…good date, was it?”

Molly glared at her friend, “he stayed on the sofa, if you must know.”

“Hey, whatever gets you to shut up about him,” she pointed up at the ceiling and Molly blushed subconsciously; honestly, it wasn’t as though she droned on about Sherlock 24/7. If he stopped pissing her off, then she wouldn’t have to.

Keen to get off the topic of her complicated love life, Molly headed to the kitchen, “I’ve put the kettle on. What would you like?”

“Just a glass of water,” Mary shrugged, dropping onto the sofa with a deep groan, “I’ve been told caffeine’s bad for the baby.”

Molly, who’d been rummaging in her cupboards for fresh mugs, almost spilled the entire contents on the floor at the statement. She looked at Mary, her mouth hanging open comically. The blonde rolled her eyes, shifting on the sofa.

“Before you ask: yeah, I’m keeping it. Yes, John’s the father, no, I’m not telling him and yes, we broke up. I didn’t…” she lowered her head, gazing at her entwined hands, “I don’t know how to tell him. It’s easier this way. I’m just- I…”

The sofa dipped as Molly took a seat beside her friend; she pulled the woman into her, resting her head on her shoulder. Mary smiled happily, relieved and thankful that she could just relax and stop thinking, if just for a moment.

* * *

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you today,” John was saying as he jogged to keep up with his foul-tempered best friend. He couldn’t understand it, the detective had been in a good mood that morning. Until Jim had showed up…was it the fluffy dressing gown? Did it offend him, seeing a fellow bloke dressed so…demeaning? That seemed to be the only solution he could come up with, anyway. They came to the lab and John had had enough. He seized the taller man and span him roughly around, “oi! What is your problem?”

Sherlock dragged a stool from under the table and all but threw himself onto it, shrugging off his coat. He turned to the army doctor with a harsh scowl, almost snarling as he responded, “why don’t you make yourself useful, John? The coffee isn’t going to get itself.”

It was a tremendous effort on John’s part not to strangle the detective right then and there, an effort he felt should be honoured by the Queen of England. He stormed out of the lab, muttering curses under his breath; as soon as the doors swung shut, Sherlock sighed deeply, ruffling his hair frantically. Unbeknownst to him, John had been almost spot on regarding the source of Sherlock’s irritation: Jim from fucking IT, although unflattering dressing gowns had nothing to do with it. What was so great about computers? Nothing. And yet he managed to sleep with his new neighbour after one date, a date Sherlock Holmes believed he’d done a perfect job of sabotaging. After all, he’d ended up between Molly’s legs after an arousing argument. But noooooo, Mr. Nice Suit had somehow won. Bastard.

“Who is?” Sherlock looked up to find Molly sipping coffee with her legs propped up on her desk, an eyebrow raised questioningly. He refused to acknowledge her and instead set about making himself look busy. He heard her sigh followed by heels on the floor, crossing the room, closer…

A file landed on his table and Molly muttered, “I, err, have the results for those kid’s trainers. Carl Powers, wasn’t it?”

Again, Sherlock ignored her as he rifled through the file, confirming everything he already knew. After a few moments, Molly sighed and wrung her hands, “look, maybe we should talk about…what happened-”

“Oh, you remember, do you?” He swivelled on his stool, glaring at the confused pathologist. Sherlock shrugged, “I’m surprised you could recall anything after that… _goodbye_ this morning.”

“You saw that?” Molly replied, sounding more incredulous than she’d intended to. Blinking rapidly, she added, “were- were you watching me or something?”

“Almost fell through the window.”

“Ah, John, you’re back,” Sherlock retorted, looking back through his microscope as John placed the coffee beside him. The army doctor was still mad if his smug look towards a furious Molly was anything to go by.

“Why don’t you just set up fucking spy cameras!”

“Mrs. Hudson won’t let me.”

Molly let out an angry huff before stomping off with exaggerated force towards her desk, throwing herself onto her chair and folding her arms like a sulky toddler. John was looking far too pleased with himself for Sherlock’s liking when he muttered.

“It’s not the dressing gown, mate,” the detective rolled his eyes, preparing to give John a piece of his mind, but he was already halfway towards the doors. What did he know? A lot more about relationships, yes, but that was no reason to start listening to the idiot, “oh, hi, Jim…”

Sherlock inwardly groaned at the sound of Jim’s name; he was forced to watch Molly excitedly jump from her desk and clack her heels over to him, throwing her arms around him forcefully. Honestly, it was sickening. He kissed her cheek and produced a sandwich from his pocket.

“I thought you might want some lunch…hey, Sherlock…” unsurprisingly, the greeting fell on deaf ears but Jim was too involved with his lovely girlfriend to care. She’d barely taken a bite of the sandwich before Jim blurted, “I think we should go away for the weekend. Just the two of us. Dartmoor’s nice this time of year. What do you think?”

Once Molly had stopped choking on the single bite she’d taken, she looked Jim in the eyes and bit her lip, “this weekend?” Jim nodded and Molly swallowed, choosing her words carefully, “oh, look, Jim…that’s very sweet of you…and you know I’m crazy about you-“ they both ignored the cold laugh originating from the other side of the room, “I just, I think it’s too soon. I mean, we haven’t even slept together-“

“Mmm, I suppose you’re right,” he sighed, smiling warmly at her, “well, are you still free for dinner? In London, I promise,” he joked, holding up his hands mock defensively. Molly chuckled and nodded, kissing his cheek.

“I didn’t say no. Just…not yet.”

“I’ll wait,” he replied, kissing her nose briefly; he loved that little button nose. He patted her leg a final time and stood, rolling his shoulders, “well, those computers aren’t going to fix themselves, sadly. See you later.”

A final kiss later and he was off, sweeping from the lab with his usual flamboyant gusto. Releasing her ponytail and running a hand through her loose hair, Molly dared a glance at the back of the room only to find it empty, both of detective and criminal evidence (Powers’ trainers). Just as she was ready to breathe a sigh of relief, she felt the consistent buzzing of her phone in the pocket of her lab coat and, instantly, her fury returned.

_Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient. SH_

_If inconvenient, come anyway. SH_

_I’m sorry? SH_

_Drop dead._

Molly looked over her message and rolled her eyes; git or not, he hadn’t done anything to warrant her brutal wrath, just invaded her privacy slightly and made her feel like an idiot in her own home. Besides, whether she liked it or not, she didn’t want him to die. She cared about him, deep down. She deleted the harsh words and opted for something that conveyed her annoyance and warned him to never do it again, her fingers hurting from the force of her typing.

* * *

_Get stuffed. Mollyx_

“That yer girlfriend, mate?”

Sherlock ignored the moronic cab driver (but nevertheless wiped the smile off his face) and tucked away his phone, choosing to stare out of the window for the remainder of the drive. He could tell she’d agonised over how scathing she’d wanted her response to sound. For some reason, the thought delighted him almost as much as the discovery Jim and Molly hadn’t consummated their relationship. He’d left as soon as he’d heard before they noticed his embarrassingly smug grin.

Once the cab pulled up to Baker Street, Sherlock paid quickly and practically skipped up to the front door and subsequent staircase; if John noticed the extra flourish he added when removing his coat, it wasn’t mentioned. Then again, he was too busy staring at his own reflection in the mirror, rubbing at his cheeks and turning his head from side to side.

“Do you think I need a shave?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes – oh, good, he was going out on another date. He’d only just gotten used to Mary, at least she was smart. And funny. And genuinely cared about John, not one of those women casually going through his wallet when he’s out of the room. Or openly flirting with Sherlock himself, right in front of poor oblivious John. He liked Mary, he missed Mary.

“No.”

John peered at Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror, smirking, “ah, you’re in a good mood again.”

“I got some good news.”

He may have gestured Carl Powers’ trainers but John knew that wasn’t it at all. Still, he nodded, “good. Any plans for this evening?”

“Generic clues regarding the bomb case,” he responded vaguely, sitting at his microscope and twisting the dials. John knew he wasn’t going to get anything more out of him and rolled his eyes, pocketing his keys and wallet.

“Right, I’m having some drinks with a couple of mates from work. I shouldn’t be too long,” he paused, gritting his teeth before adding, “and be nice to Molly. She was blown up because of you.”

“Mmm.”

“Sherlock…” John said, using what Inspector Lestrade called the ‘parent voice’. Sherlock looked up, giving John his undivided attention; John made a mental note to remember the voice and cleared his throat, “please? Mrs. Hudson will never forgive you if you drive away the nicest tenant she’s ever had.”

“Okay.”

The army doctor nodded, bidding his friend a final goodbye as he left the flat. Sherlock waited until he was certain John had left before leaping to his feet and hurrying to his bedroom; he found the abducted (from Molly’s, after she’d left for work – he didn’t have a death wish!) feline snoozing on his soft bed, stretched out lazily, his long fur sticking to every fibre. He peeled the cat away, almost tripping over the food and water bowls he’d left him as he carried him into the living room. Hours spent in the bedroom had mellowed the cat; he even purred when the tall stranger scratched his ears.

“Right, you,” the tall one’s tone was still less than friendly but Toby didn’t care. He just wanted more fussing, “I need your help.”

* * *

Molly shouldered open her door, more than eager to cuddle her cat and sit in front of awful telly and cheap wine; this had been her busiest afternoon shift since starting her dream job. She dropped her bag on the coffee table as she passed, heading straight for her wine cupboard. Toby meowed from his position at her feet, scratching at his collar insistently. Molly grinned, bending down to pet her beloved animal; as she did, she noticed several pieces of paper sticking out of the uncomfortable tabby’s collar. Toby shook himself vigorously as his mistress pulled them free, her look turning what could only be described as monstrous as she scanned through them. Soon, she had downed a glass of wine and was marching towards her front door.

The sweet violin sounds from upstairs did nothing to heed Molly’s progress as she burst into the flat, shoving Sherlock hard in the chest so that he fell back into his chair. She waved the notes accusingly and threw them into his lap.

“You broke into my flat? _Again?_ ”

Sherlock blinked, thinking carefully about his predicament – he honestly hadn’t seen a downside to his plan to get on the road to forgiveness. He smiled innocently, “yes but-“

“I can’t believe you!” Molly ran her hands through her hair, shaking her head rapidly. She poked him hard in the chest, “you really want me gone that badly?”

He tilted his head, “well-“

“Forget it,” Molly almost shouted, walking towards the door, “nothing is worth this-“

“I needed you to forgive me.”

“That’s not your decision to make!”

She may have been fuming mad and almost spitting poison but at least she had returned to standing before him, glaring down at him. Her arms folded, her chest rising and falling with her heavy breaths. Suddenly, he found it very hard to concentrate.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, looking up into her eyes. Molly faltered, her shock momentarily overriding her anger. He continued, “I-I didn’t mean to…the last thing I wanted to do was hurt your feelings.”

Molly didn’t know what to say; finally, he was accepting his mistakes and attempting to make up for them. His approach was wrong, very wrong, but he was trying. If nothing else, Molly was slightly flattered that he was doing so for her.

“Oh.”

“Better? Good. I have a plan.”

Molly shook her head, resisting the bizarre urge to laugh. She took it all back, he was a dick. Plain and simple. Maybe he was sorry but right at that moment Molly didn’t want to hear anything from him, let alone whatever plan he had in mind.

“You’re impossible!” She spat, once more turning on her heel and strolling towards the door; she was almost home free when Sherlock spoke again.

“It’s about Mary and John.”

Molly groaned, sighing as she traipsed back into the room; she took John’s seat and massaged her forehead. When she finally looked at her maddening neighbour, his hands were clasped and his brilliant gaze was fixed on her. She shrugged.

“I’m listening.”

* * *

“I’m not sure about this…”

Molly was sitting on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, fully dressed and trying her hardest not to watch him undress. He’d explained his stupid plan at such speed she’d barely had time to take it in. Something about pretending to date to get them talking to each other (“couples who gossip together, stay together”) or some such rubbish. However, all thoughts of the ridiculous plan vanished from her mind as Sherlock’s shirt fell to the floor, along with Molly’s mouth. He turned around which didn’t help Molly’s situation one bit; he deliberately ruffled his hair to look as messy as possible and the pathologist frowned, wondering if he was doing this on purpose. He rolled his eyes.

“Can you think of a better way to get them back together?”

“Yes! Plenty!” She squeaked, gawking pathetically as he started on trousers.

“Really?” He paused thoughtfully, his trousers halfway down his very nice thighs. After what felt like a lifetime to a melting Molly Hooper, he shrugged, pushing them down the rest of the way, “never mind, we’re doing this.”

“Remind me,” Molly asked, folding her arms as Sherlock crawled under the covers beside her, “how does John discovering us in bed together reunite he and Mary?”

“He would have to tell someone,” he shrugged and Molly swallowed, noticing not for the first time his broad shoulders, “it’s in his nature. Mrs. Hudson is out of the question. Despite her background as an exotic dancer, she is still the closest thing to John’s grandmother.”

Molly couldn’t hold in her chuckle, “oh my God, exotic dancer? Really?”

“Yup.”

She giggled to herself for a moment, relaxing considerably in his presence; when he was being himself, she liked Sherlock. It didn’t hurt that he was very nice to look at, too. Muscles she could run her hands over, mussed hair she wanted to grip and lips she really…loved.

“I suppose you want me to…”

“For the baby.”

Molly raised her eyebrows, “that’s a bit weird.”

She smiled, turning away to unbutton her shirt with slightly trembling fingers; the thought crossed her mind that she had just got in from work and hadn’t yet showered but, as she lowered her shirt and nervously glanced over her shoulder to find Sherlock’s eyes slowly travelling up and down her bare back, Molly decided she couldn’t care less. Their eyes met and Molly awkwardly shimmied beneath the covers, unwilling to break the spell; she wriggled out of her trousers and tossed them aside. This was a bizarre plan, ludicrous with a very low possibility of success. Sherlock’s gentle touch joined his gaze and Molly squeaked.

“What are you doing?” He didn’t answer and continued tracing over her skin, climbing steadily up her back until he found her bra. He deftly unhooked the material and Molly flushed, pressing the duvet into her chest as she removed the offending article, “th-thanks.”

He nodded once, still looking at her with complete softness and, dare she say it, adoration. She’d spent so much of the day cursing his very existence and now she wanted to jump him and offer John Watson genuine, truthful evidence of their union.

“W-what time did you say John would be back?”

Sherlock looked up at her eyes again, swallowing thickly, “um…not long.”

As if on cue, John Watson could be heard charging into 221B and apparently tripping over everything; it was then that Molly began to think of everything that could go wrong. What if John had brought someone home and didn’t check on Sherlock until morning? She’d be forced to share his bed all night, unsure whether she’d behave herself. What if John fainted upon finding them? What if John didn’t believe them? Before she could whisper any of them to her friend, she was pulled down onto his chest and Molly desperately tried not to blush; well, her hand was there, spread across his lean stomach, and it felt good. Their eyes shut as John pushed open the door slightly; seconds later, the door snapped shut before almost instantly open again. Molly could imagine the look on John’s face resembled that of a bug-eyed cartoon character.

“Mary, look…I know you told me not to call you,” John’s voice could be heard from the hallway and Molly felt a light pinch at her hip. She looked up into the smuggest expression she’d ever seen on anyone. She couldn’t help but smile back at him, “but…it finally happened…”


	9. The Illness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is sick and visits John for a cure. Meanwhile, Molly comes clean to Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the delay and if this feels a little off. not feeling my best, writing-wise, lately...hope you like it anyyway x

_“About fucking time!”_ Mary declared triumphantly, almost causing John to drop his phone, _“I knew it! You saw how he was when that bomb exploded.”_

John couldn’t help but smile at his ex’s enthusiasm; he knew he should be angry with her, demand to know why she had ended their budding relationship. She adored Molly and wanted nothing but her happiness and, as far as Sherlock was concerned, there was nobody Mary Morstan respected more. His thoughts were interrupted by Mary’s impatient chatter.

_“Well, what are you waiting for? Wake them up! I want to hear all about it!”_

John glanced at his flatmate’s bedroom and wondered if Mary was being serious. He pulled out a chair and sat himself down, “yeah, I’m not going to do that.”

 _“You’re no fun.”_ Oh, so she was being serious. He couldn’t resist a cheeky reply.

“That’s not what you used to say…”

He heard Mary’s melodic laughter and his heart thudded rapidly, _“I was drunk when we met remember?”_

“Still…” John replied with his own chuckle. He drummed his fingers against the table, “I miss this.”

“Me too,” Mary responded after a slight hesitation.

Before John could say anything else, the sounds of murmurs and giggles emanating from his flatmate’s bedroom told him he hadn’t been quiet enough; he’d had nowhere near enough sleep to be dealing with _that_ right then.

“Mary, I have to go…” he hastily stood from his chair and ran a hand through his hair, “sleeping beauty and the princess of death are waking up-”

_“No! Please, just hang around. I want to listen!”_

He didn’t have time to argue with her insanity; almost as soon as she’d stopped talking, the bedroom swung open, revealing the debauched Molly Hooper – John quickly dropped his phone into his pocket and leaned awkwardly against the fridge, shooting her a glance. With her back to him, Molly didn’t seem to notice him as she poured herself a glass of water, running a hand through her dishevelled hair. Sherlock followed her a moment later, wearing nothing but pyjama bottoms, John noticed uncomfortably, completely ignored him and approached Molly, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“I’m not finished with you yet,” he growled into her neck, slipping his hand lower to rub her through her knickers. Molly grinned.

“Oooh, another eight minutes?” She purred, stroking his arm, “is it my birthday?”

John cleared his throat hastily before the pair of them could do any more than stare at each other hungrily – honestly, he ate in here! The lovebirds barely acknowledged him, however, and he rolled his eyes.

“So…” John began awkwardly, looking anywhere but at the other half-naked occupants. He gestured at nothing in particular, “this is…unexpected.”

Mary’s snort of laughter from his pocket was so audible, John was worried Sherlock and Molly would notice; then again, they were too busy smiling at each other with their hands wandering for them to take note of their surroundings. He vaguely wondered if they even knew he had spoken.

“Right, come on, then…I haven’t got all night,” he snapped, pulling out the chair once more and sitting himself down. They exchanged glances but quickly took their place opposite him, Molly seated comfortably in the lap of her new love.

“Um, well…I was having the day from hell,” Molly started, fiddling with her glass of water, “Jim and I had just broken up-”

 _“Jesus_ , Jim!”

“His loss, my gain…” Sherlock chimed in, pressing a kiss to Molly’s cheek. John, however, was not so amused.

“Does he know about this?”

“Yes, I called him immediately,” John glared at his flatmate. Sherlock merely chuckled, nudging Molly’s hip to indicate she could stand. “I’d love to chat but we‘re in the middle of something…”

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” the army doctor grimaced, waving dismissively at the tall arsehole. Said arsehole grinned and tugged Molly back into his bedroom, the door slamming behind them. John fished his phone from his pocket, lowering his voice as he spoke to his ex, “satisfied?”

 _“Yeah…”_ Mary said almost thoughtfully, _“didn’t waste any time, did they?”_

“Oh, I don’t have the energy to care right now. It’s been a long night,” he gave a long-suffering sigh and stood from the kitchen table, stretching his overworked body. He cleared his throat, “I miss you.”

_“Oh, I miss you.”_

The softness and desperation in her voice gave him the confidence he needed, “can I see you?”

Mary chuckled, _“you’ll see me at work, won’t you?”_

“You know what I mean.”

Mary sighed and he sensed the hesitation in her tone, _“it’s late. I-I’ll see you at the clinic. Goodnight, John.”_

Sighing, John nodded and hung up the phone, staring at the blank screen for several minutes before shaking his head and rushing upstairs to his bedroom. Inside the other bedroom, Sherlock and Molly, who’d been leaning against the door listening intently, stepped away and huffed in frustration.

“That sounded good, right?” Molly asked optimistically, pacing the room dressed in only her smalls and borrowed shirt, still. Her carefree companion, now back in bed, shrugged.

“Didn’t sound good.”

“For God’s sake, what is wrong with them?”

Molly threw herself on the bed, gathering her clothes from the floor; this was stupid plan, why ever had she agreed to it? Glancing over her shoulder, at her shamelessly shirtless friend, she remembered.

“It’s going to be a long process. He doesn’t know about the…whole impending fatherhood thing yet,” he reminded her, grimacing at the thought of John discovering he was the last to know about his own son or daughter. That was going to be an unpleasant conversation. Then again, the longer he and Mary refused to get back together, the longer he’d have to touch and hold Molly if she was his.

“You don’t have to look so chuffed about it.”

Sherlock realised then that he’d been smiling and quickly schooled his expression into one of convincing sympathy. “I’m devastated…what are you doing?”

Molly had shimmied into her trousers and was in the process of shrugging off his shirt; she arched her eyebrow, placing her hands on her hips – he vaguely wondered if she knew she wasn’t wearing a bra and in severe danger of-

“I’m getting dressed. To go back to my flat...”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling back the duvet beside him, “and what will John think if you’re not here when he wakes up? Just stay here.”

Molly’s first instinct was to laugh in his face and march from the flat with her clothes and not look back. However, when she thought about it, he did have a good point. John would expect to see her when they all woke up. Toby had plenty of food and Molly was exhausted, so she shrugged.

“If you don’t mind.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened comically but he nodded, watching as Molly climbed in beside him, removing her jeans beneath the bedcovers. She rolled onto her side and switched off the bedside lamp; almost immediately she began to fall asleep, her last conscious memory of the night was of being pulled into a warm embrace, long muscled arms encircling her.

* * *

 

This was the worst moment of his life. Officially. Worse than the drugs, the unsolved cases, the relapses, the lying to his best friend. He was currently lying on his side, pressed against the tiny, soft body of Molly Hooper, his arm trapped beneath her and cupping her breast. Of course, she’d neglected to button the shirt he would now have to burn – how was he supposed to wear it again knowing her little frame had once been swallowed up by it? Glancing at the clock – an hour, _a whole bloody hour_ he’d been awake and helpless – Sherlock wriggled in an attempt to free himself and, oh God, release her before he embarrassed himself. He succeeded with nothing but making her sigh in her sleep, shifting ever closer to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his treacherous body back under his control. _Whose bright fucking idea was it that she stay the night? Oh, yes, mine._ He cursed his own stupidity, once again tugging on his arm, desperately praying for mercy. He pulled a tad too forcefully, though, and rolled her right on top of him.

“Sherlock? What the-”

It was a mixture of panic and frustration that had him curling his hand around her neck and pulling her down to him, capturing her lips with his own. It was far from tender and, within moments (after recovering from her half-asleep shock), Molly was responding in kind, her hands clutching at his shoulders, the back of his neck, his hair. Their tongues soon got involved, neither content until they had the other moaning; he nibbled her bottom lip, sliding his hands from her hips and up her back. She sighed in frustration, grinding against him as she repeatedly took his mouth. Sherlock had just been about to roll her onto her back when the loud sound of a phone vibrating against the bedside table disrupted their madness. As if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over them, they separated, avoiding each other’s gaze as Molly took up her phone. He didn’t need to ask who’d sent the text.

He stormed out of his bedroom, thundering through the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. John, already showered and dressed, was busy making his breakfast; he looked up and gestured the cereal, “morning, did you want-”

“I want her out of here!” He almost shouted, his voice still annoyingly husky. He slammed the door in John’s stupid confused face, hopping in the shower without removing his pyjama bottoms and switching the cold water on full blast, knocking the breath out of him.

John stared at the bathroom door, shrugging, choosing instead to focus on his breakfast; well, that relationship had lasted about as long as he’d expected. How Molly had lasted one day was beyond his comprehension in the first place. Molly emerged a moment later, tucking in her shirt as she hurried to the door.

“Trouble in paradise?”

“Nothing, okay?”

The flat door closed behind her with a resounding bang, leaving John to stare after her in utter bafflement; he shook his head, pouring himself more cereal. One thing seemed certain, nothing good could ever come from shagging Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

“So, let me get this straight…” Jim said slowly, replacing his coffee cup on the table, “you and Sherlock Holmes, the bloke you live below, are pretending to go out so that Mary’s baby will have a father?”

“Something like that,” Molly shrugged, fiddling with her own empty cup; she held her breath as Jim considered her words. She thought it best to add, “but that’s it. It’s completely and utterly not-real. We spent last night together and-”

“Wait, you spent last night with him?” Molly had never seen Jim look so hurt before and guilt washed over her immediately; she was honestly the worst person and he deserved better. She nodded, bowing her head.

“Look at me…” Molly peered up into his dark eyes, noting the change in his expression; there was an air of danger about him as he leaned forwards, “I will not be made a fool of, Molly.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you…rather than you hearing it from someone else,” she covered his hand, “Jim, nothing happened. I’m asking you to trust me. I’m with you; you’re the only one I care about. There is absolutely nothing between me and Sherlock Holmes!”

After what felt like an age, Jim smiled and squeezed Molly’s hand in return, bringing her knuckles to his lips; it was a small gesture and, thankfully, neither John and Mary were around the crowded cafeteria. Molly couldn’t believe her luck; she really didn’t deserve the kind, understanding devotion from the man opposite…not when she was off snogging other men whether it meant anything or not. That was the past and Jim was her future. They walked back to the morgue hand-in-hand, Molly leaning against his shoulder; her blood ran cold when she found the bane of her existence huddled over his microscope in the corner of the room. Sherlock barely looked up when they entered, however Molly was sure he rolled his eyes as Jim kissed her cheek tenderly.

“This isn’t against the rules, is it?” Jim purred playfully into Molly’s ear, hugging her from behind as she giggled far too loudly. Sherlock knew the comment was directed at him.

“Don’t be silly…” Molly hummed happily, resting her head on his shoulder and grinning broadly, “you can do whatever you like.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The IT technician and the pathologist were too lost in each other to notice the third-party retreat quickly from the lab, whipping his coat around his shoulders at record speed.

* * *

John sat at his desk, alternating between doodling in his notebook and sighing in total boredom; he hadn’t had a patient for the last hour and he was beginning to get restless. He was in the middle of debating whether or not to get his third cup of coffee of the afternoon when his office door opened, Mary poking her head inside cheerily.

“Busy?”

“Oh, yeah… I don’t know when I’m going to manage to get that paperwork done,” he said sarcastically, smiling when Mary giggled; she shuffled into the room – he took notice of her lovely loose-fitting bird-patterned shirt; he hadn’t seen that one before.

“Well, if you stopped drawing cartoon bunnies, you might get it done and I wouldn’t get in trouble,” she winked, taking immense delight in his embarrassment and hiding of his notebook. She handed him a clipboard, “I’ve got a feeling you’ll like this one.”

John eyed her suspiciously and took the clipboard, examining the patient’s details, “hmm, thirty-five-year-old smoker suffering from chest pains?” John looked up at her in amusement, “I don’t think you need to be a doctor to figure this one out.”

“He insists he see a doctor,” Mary chuckled, her delight lost on John Watson…well, until she returned with a certain consulting detective, a grumpy consulting detective who’d once told him he’d rather slip into a coma than be treated by the army doctor. Words he’d promised not to forget, “absolutely not.”

“Really, John? Didn’t you take some kind of oath?” Sherlock said, looking almost bored as he sat in the unoccupied chair opposite the severely unimpressed doctor. He sighed, adopting the air of a wounded puppy, “I need your help.”

“Oh, good idea,” Mary piped up, leaning against John’s desk, “give the former junkie prescription medication. Now I’ve heard it all.”

Sherlock frowned at his best mate, who at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself; just how much had he shared with his former flame? Unfazed, the detective looked up at the blonde, folding his arms.

“There’s no need to be a _baby_ about it…” he couldn’t resist a small smirk at the stunned expression on Mary’s face. He continued smugly, “such infantile behaviour,” one more wouldn’t hurt, “foetus like.”

Mary narrowed her eyes and glared at the ailing detective until she left the office, closing the door sharply behind her; the meaning of their conversation was lost on John Watson, with the doctor in question still gaping in utter bewilderment after his ex-girlfriend. He shook his head, shuffling his papers in an attempt to look busier than he actually was; _anything_ if it meant he didn’t have to treat his flatmate.

“Look, Sherlock, I’m really busy-”

“I only need painkillers.”

John actually laughed, “you must think I’m an idiot.”

“Yeeees but that has nothing to do with your medical background. Surprisingly,” he smiled, a forced practiced smile that John didn’t believe for one second. He stared at him incredulously.

“Oh, quick, hand me my prescription pad.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, folding his arms like a sulking child. John thought it best to attempt reason, “look, I understand. You’re stuck on a case, you’ve had a spat with your…Molly, cigarettes aren’t working. I’m not doing this. You have to find another-”

This has nothing to do with a fix!” He could understand how it looked – he was agitated, his foot tapping repeatedly and he looked like he’d crawled through a hedge on his way to the clinic – but he’d never needed his friend more. Leaning forwards and ruffling his hair, Sherlock muttered, “I really need something. It’s painful.”

John hesitated, looking over his friend from behind his desk – he didn’t _look_ high. However, the bastard was hardly ever sick and bragged about it constantly. Why would he now want his help? He shook his head, retrieving a pair of gloves from the box on his desk, fully aware he was probably making the biggest mistake of his career.

“You sure it’s not the smoking?” He asked, dragging his chair beside the detective, clicking the torch light before lifting it to his friend’s eyes, “you smoke like a chimney when you’re stuck.”

“I am not stuck. I’m waiting.”

Honestly, if he heard one more word about the secretive Moriarty’s next move, he’d jump out of a window. Finding nothing wrong with his eyes, John examined Sherlock’s wrists – nothing there except past scars. He picked up his stethoscope.

“Any discomfort elsewhere? Shortness of breath?” The doctor moved the stethoscope along the expanse of Sherlock’s chest; there didn’t seem to be an irregularity, heartbeat normal. Sherlock shook his head and John removed the stethoscope, retreating back to his desk.

“Well?”

“It might be asthma. You’re running around London, the pollution…” he shrugged, scribbling on his notepad before tearing off the sheet. He handed the paper to his friend, “I’m giving you a week’s course of these. If the pain continues after that, let me know.”

Sherlock examined the prescription, “do I have to make an appointment to do that?”

“Get out.”

* * *

Several hours later, Sherlock was sitting in the cafeteria of St. Bart’s, looking over the medication John had prescribed him for his peculiar condition; it had started that morning, long after Molly and John had left, a deep throbbing pain within his chest. He’d thought nothing of it until it happened in the lab, upon seeing Molly and Jim intertwined sickeningly – that would have made anyone feel sick.

“Alright, you bastard,” Mary announced her presence by pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down, drumming her fingers angrily against the table, “Molly told you, didn’t she?”

“She didn’t have to.”

Mary supposed he had a point – pregnancy wasn’t the easiest thing to hide. She looked at the box he was staring at, snatching it from his grasp, “I can’t believe he actually gave them to you.”

“Like I said, I need them.”

As if on cue, the source of his problems lately, Jim from IT, waltzed into the cafeteria, once again clutching Molly Hooper as if she was his security blanket. He scowled in their direction, tearing open his box of painkillers, suddenly feeling extremely nauseous. Mary was watching them happily, leaning on her hand – it didn’t surprise him that she wasn’t confused about their fake relationship. If anyone could figure it out, it was Mary Morstan.

“Aww, they’re adorable, aren’t they?”

“Yup,” Sherlock replied bitterly, removing two tablets and swallowing them with a gulp of his water, “doesn’t mind the occasional snog with someone else but whatever.”

Mary glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, “I thought that was for our benefit?”

“It was.”

Her eyes widened and she leaned forwards, always keen to hear the latest gossip, “why, did something happen?”

“Oh, no…nothing of importance, so I’ve been told,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically, making it his life’s mission not to look in the direction of the lunch queue. Mary shook her head, looking back at Molly, now laughing at something her boyfriend had said.

“Yeah, well, I think they look cute.”

“Of course, she does. _Everything_ she does it cute,” he looked down at the medication, wondering if John had given him a placebo since the ones he’d just taken seemed to be having no affect whatsoever. He looked up, noticing Mary staring at him knowingly, “what?”

“Chest pains?”

“Yes.”

Mary looked over at Jim and Molly, her eyes widening as the pieces fell into place, “oh my God, you’re not sick!” She reached over and snatched the pills, shaking her head, “you’re _jealous_!”

“I am not jealous, I’m in pain,” he insisted, attempting to take his meds back; Mary held them out of reach, to his annoyance. He sighed, gritting his teeth, “it comes and goes. I’m not an expert…”

“You can say that again,” Mary looked far too happy for his liking; nothing he could possibly say at that moment would help prove how completely wrong she was so he chose to remain silent. She giggled, “you like her!”

“No, I don’t. It’s not my fault her skin is so soft,” he shrugged but Mary only laughed harder, wiping her eyes. He scowled, “look, just because I accidentally kissed her this morning-”

“Accidentally?” She guffawed, clutching her sides, “what were you aiming for?”

Sherlock didn’t wait for her amusement to fade away; he rose to his feet and wrapped his coat tight around himself before strolling away, shooting a glare at Jim and Molly as he passed. Mary couldn’t believe it! The last thing she’d been expecting was to figure out her ex-boyfriend’s flatmate fancied her best mate. Perhaps she shouldn’t have laughed so hard but the poor sod believed he was _ill_! It was too much. Still chortling to herself, Mary removed her phone and fired off a text.

_He’s not sick. He’s in love X’D MMx_

_Oh. So, my diagnosis was wrong? JW_


End file.
